


Put Your Ray Gun to My Head

by Eugara



Series: Bowie!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, M/M, Science Fiction, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 96,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sci-fi AU.  Sam and Dean Winchester are bounty hunters with nothing more to their name than an outmoded Impala-class junker and a shoddily-repurposed government android.  But when a slip-up during a case leaves Sam with 48 hours before he turns into a bloodthirsty killing machine, the brothers are pulled into a twisted conspiracy that will test not only the strength of their love for each other…but the very meaning of free will itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keep Your Mouth Shut

Sam is excruciatingly aware that their disruptive arrival at the Spectra Prime Enforcement Station, dragging the growling, spitting heap of their latest catch behind them, probably isn’t Sheriff Jody Mills’s favorite part of the day. Or month, really. But hell if she doesn’t cover like a fucking pro.

The sheriff glances up from her desk as soon as the unavoidable commotion reaches her sector of the bullpen. The walls in here are gray upon gray upon slightly darker gray, but the green glow of her terminal lights up the faint tightness around the corners of her eyes. “Hey there, boys,” Jody says, pleasantly enough, then pushes away from her chair with a stifled sigh. She’s the only enforcer in the Prime precinct that doesn’t tend to hold their profession against them—which is surprisingly open-minded of her, considering that the rest of her colleagues tend to view bounty hunters somewhere between ‘scum of the galaxy’ and ‘narunian pig swill’. It’s really the main reason why they keep choosing her as their liaison every time they bring in a new bounty, and Sheriff Mills tends to reward that loyalty with an unerring fondness of her own. “Whatcha got for me today?” Jody glances down at the snarling lycan, still struggling furiously against the net, then raises an eyebrow. “Jaywalking?”

Dean snorts and flings the knotted grip down at Jody’s feet, boots squeaking as he leaves another smear of camphor wax against the spotless linoleum. The fumes are still chokingly strong, even half a light-year out, and Sam shifts his head away before his eyes can start to water. “Fucker decided that the Anti-Murder Act didn’t apply to him,” Dean spits. “Found him chest-deep in organic corpses and hiding out below the cave-hives on Barus.”

The sheriff’s eyes widen at the statement, then flick over to Sam, probably assuming that his brother is exaggerating for the sake of the story. Murder (out of anything other than self-defense) is a capital offense throughout almost all of the colonized galaxies, but Spectra doesn’t even have a Two-Strikes law. Not to mention that the government angels tend to handle any heat-of-the-moment confrontations with terrifying efficiency. It’s become an effective enough deterrent that non-mandated killings are fairly rare, even in the Outer Cluster. For a bounty caught in the act like this, the only thing waiting in the immediate future is a swift execution.  

But Sam just nods and tosses her a weak smile. “Chowing down on hearts,” he says tiredly. “I grabbed a retinal vid as proof. Figured you’d need to see it.”

Jody blows out a disbelieving breath and hooks her thumbs into her uniform belt. “So we sent out an APB bounty for…what?” She scrolls through the station info on her personal terminal—the scanner would have picked up the guy’s record the instant they crossed the threshold—then glances back to the lycan trying to gnaw his way through the ionized silver ropes. “Skyjacking and grand theft? And Mr. Myers here comes back with multiple counts of organic _murder_ to his name?”

Dean shrugs and thumbs the lid off of his hip flask. “Maybe he got tired of snausages,” he says dryly, then kicks out at the lycan with the toe of his boot. “That what happened, asshole? You get sick of synthesized werewolf chow and decide to go for the real deal?” Myers just snaps at Dean’s foot and intensifies his attempts to break through the impenetrable netting, claws extended as he wildly scrabbles against the tile floor. Dean frowns and shifts away until he’s out of reach. “Fucker’s brain-dead or something, I dunno,” he mutters. “Hasn’t said a freaking word since we caught up to him.”

Jody lifts her eyebrows again and Sam shrugs in agreement. “He's not lying,” Sam says, backing up his brother’s statement. “Plus, the guy was weirdly strong for a lycan. It took almost five silver clips to bring him down.”

“And how many does it usually take?” she asks cautiously.

Dean fixes her with an even stare, tipping his flask back against his lips as he swallows. “One.”

Sam glances down at their bounty. “Violent too,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. “More so than usual. I don’t know, it’s almost like he’s _feral_ or something.”

Jody’s brow knits together and she crouches down on her haunches, wrists resting against her knees as she examines the captive more closely. “You ever come across one with their eyes all bloodshot like this? Almost looks like he’s bleeding out.”

“Not really,” Dean says, voice a shade rougher now due to the whiskey. “With lycans like that, they’re usually blue or green. Sometimes yellowish—once in a blue moon.” His brother beams up at him at the weak joke, and Sam makes sure to roll his own eyes as over-the-top as he possibly can in response.

The lycan snaps at Jody again and she jerks away from his fangs, then slowly rises back upright as she keeps a wary eye on the net. “Y’know, this is gonna sound crazy, but I think I might have an idea what’s up with Mr. Myers here.”

“Please, Sheriff,” Dean prompts. “Do tell.”

“It’s the eyes. Something about that detail rings a bell.” She frowns at the prisoner again, then turns her attention back to Sam. “Gimme a second to check the station data,” she says. A statement, not a request. “I’m gonna run through a few of the more recent violence reports. See what’s pinging me as familiar.” Jody grabs her uniform jacket off the back of her chair and fixes both of them with a hard look. “I’m only gonna be in the records room for a few minutes, so you sit your butts down and keep them there. I find out you went off wandering through the precinct, you’re not getting paid. Understood?”

“Aw, it’s almost like you don’t trust us,” Dean simpers dramatically. Then he suddenly grins, rakish and sharp. “What kind of secrets you got locked up in this place that you don’t want us to find?”

Sam elbows his brother in the ribs and offers up a much more trustworthy expression. “We’ll be right here when you get back, Jody. Promise.”

She rolls her eyes, then tries (and fails) to hide the affectionate smile tugging at her lips. “You keep a leash on your brother there, Sam. I’m serious about the payment thing.”

Sam nods obediently, but Dean rocks back on his heels the instant Jody moves out of sight, his free hand tucked into his jacket pocket and a smug grin stretching brazenly across his face.

“What?” Sam asks suspiciously, eyeing his brother’s blissful expression. “You look like you’re planning on fixing a horse race. Should I warn the gambling scows?”

“ _Murder_ , Sammy,” Dean preens. “That’s what, four hundred extra chits? And we only went after the guy for _hijacking_ charges.” He circles his hand, twirling the whiskey at the bottom of his flask. “Woke up this morning expecting a normal day, and now we’re up a cool thousand. It puts me in a definite good mood.” Dean throws him a lascivious wink full of so much heated promise that Sam’s surprised they aren’t both instantly brought up on indecency charges. 

An enforcement officer steps up briskly alongside them, and Sam nearly chokes on his tongue before he realizes that the guy’s only there to facilitate the hand-off. They pass the still-struggling Myers into the other man’s hands, and Sam lets his gaze slip over the rest of the station as the officer quickly marches as far away from them as he can possibly get.

Pretty much the entire precinct is giving them the side-eye as they mill around, but Sam can’t really blame them. The infamous Winchester brothers clearly don’t fit in here and the cops know it. Sam’s frayed, beige vest and scuffed boots stand out awkwardly against the sleek, steam-pressed sea of identical uniforms around them, and Dean’s even worse. His brother’s current jacket was scavenged from an old army base, with the mandatory vocation patch—the pentacle ringed by fire, indicating their position as hunters—haphazardly stitched on top of the original corps insignia. The padded canvas had already faded to a grayish-green by the time Dean had first found it, and the few years he’s had it since haven’t done anything to improve the quality of the fabric. Honestly, they look more like criminals than the few suspects cuffed to the walls do. Sam ducks his head slightly and scuffs his heel against the floor, leaving more waxy residue behind.

The entire station continues to do its absolute best to pretend that bounty hunters don’t exist and no one acknowledges them again, other than a single synthetic drudge—its patch, the familiar sheriff’s star of the enforcers, proudly stamped into the metal of its chest plate. It cheerily offers them coffee (or any preferred substitute thereof) with absolutely none of the hesitation that its human counterparts have displayed, and Sam is halfheartedly charmed by the complete non-bias of synthetic beings. Granted, a drudge usually has the mental capacity of a high-end vacuum cleaner, but the sentiment is nice anyhow. They wave the bot away and mostly just stand around awkwardly until Jody returns from her perusal of the records room. Well, _Sam_ stands around awkwardly. Dean can make even the most clumsy loitering look like an act of cool, intentional grace. Like there’s no place he’d rather be and nothing he’d rather do than hang around a mundane enforcement station and take the occasional swig from his flask. After a few more tedious minutes of boredom, Jody finally heads back their way, a bulky, old-school file folder tucked under one arm.

“A paper file?” Dean asks incredulously. “Really?”

Jody nods distractedly as she shuffles through the folder. “We’ve got a section back there where we catalogue all the potentially inflammatory stuff we don’t want on our servers yet. Who knows when some pissant hacker will feel like leaking a bunch of classified data, right? This way, the information remains safe until we can put it on the record.”

“Protecting sensitive information from the g-net by keeping it analog,” Sam muses. “That’s pretty clever, actually.”

“Well, we try,” Jody responds dryly. Then she grins and taps at the paper when she finds what she’s looking for. “Okay, I _knew_ this whole thing sounded familiar,” she crows. “Looks like they’ve had a series of incidents up in Beta Centauri over the past couple months. Folks suddenly snapping and attacking anyone around them, real violent stuff. Assault, battery, murder,” Jody ticks off in order, then blinks down at the paper in her hands. “Even _cannibalism_ , apparently.” Sam fights back a shudder as the sheriff continues on. “Almost all the cases are human, except for…one moxon and a lesser vreech. Mostly mid-level stuff, single victims and the like.” She checks the file again, clearly impressed. “Other than the vreech, that is, which apparently somehow made its way into an interplanetary embassy and chewed through twelve delegates before enforcers could put it down.” Dean’s eyebrows lift in subtle surprise, matching the sheriff’s earlier enthusiasm, and Sam just tries to hold onto his lunch. “ _And_ …”  Jody says, running a finger down the print-out until she comes to the relevant info, “here we go— In every single reported case, the suspect’s eyes were described as ‘noticeably bloodshot’.” She snaps the file shut and brings her head back up. “The official medics think it’s a virus or something, considering the aggression seems to somehow jump from one infected to another. They’re calling it ‘Croatoan’.”

“Croatoan?” Dean snorts. “That’s a stupid name. Why not ‘Frenzy’ or something?” He thinks for a second. “‘Cannibal Mania’. That’s way better.”

Sam scoffs at the second name, fairly certain that it was lifted from a recent horror vid. “It’s old Earth history, Dean. Early Americas?” He gestures with his open hand, but Dean just stares at him blankly. “The lost colony at Roanoke?” His brother shrugs. “Dude, did you pay _any_ attention in history class?”

“Yeah. Shot heard ‘round the world and shit. How bills become laws.” Dean takes another sip from his flask. “I think there was one about a melting pot.”

“That’s not _school_ , that’s—” Sam shakes his head and cuts himself off. It isn’t even worth it. Both of the Centauri colonies are mostly human, unlike Spectra’s more varied population, so it’s not unreasonable that they’ve chosen an Earth name as a signifier. Sam turns his attention back to the sheriff instead. “So, the victims are being infected through…what?” he asks. “Bite wounds?”

Jody tilts her head back and forth with a noncommittal sound. “They aren’t sure yet. Most of the people who survived an attack ended up displaying identical symptoms within a couple days. But not all of them. And a large number of the first offenders had no open wounds at all. Guess they’re still looking for a patient zero.” She shrugs with one shoulder and runs a hand over the back of her short hair. “Look, I can check the databanks to see if any of the other stations have reported anything similar, but considering that this thing has already managed to reach across galaxy lines and all the way to Barus…” She lets out a tense sigh. “I gotta say, guys. That’s not good.”

“Great,” Dean mutters, hooking his flask back onto his belt. “So now we’ve gotta watch out for these amped-up, _roid rage_ psychos, as well as the usual fare.” He crosses his arms firmly over his chest and cocks an eyebrow at Jody. “Y’know, it sounds to me like we should be getting pay and a half for bagging one of these _Croatoan_ whatevers. Just to be fair and all.” Sam lets out an amused breath at his brother’s wheedling. They’re potentially facing down one of the most dangerous outbreaks the galaxy’s ever seen and Dean is hung up on haggling over price. It would be worrisome if it wasn’t so endearingly in-character.

Jody holds Dean’s stare for a few seconds, before a reluctant smile starts to pull at her lips. “ _Fair_ , huh?” Dean matches her gaze with a shameless grin of his own, and she snorts as she playfully shakes her head. “Alright, fine. You manage to bring back any infected Croatoans— _alive_ ,” she adds firmly, “then you’ll get pay and a half. We got a deal?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean says, extending a hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Sheriff.”

Jody rolls her eyes and tugs Dean’s outstretched hand into a one-armed hug, then turns to give Sam the same treatment. “You send over that retinal vid and your reward will be waiting for you up at the main terminal. Fifteen hundred, like I promised.” She smiles. “Just don’t go spending it all in one place.” Jody leaves them with a parting pat against Sam’s shoulder, Dean already several paces ahead as he makes a beeline for the front desk. “Be safe out there, boys,” she calls out after them. And Sam can see her exhaustedly drop back down into her chair as soon as they pass through the station doors.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The bustle of the lower quadrants is definitely more exciting than spending the evening up in the enforcement sector, but it’s still a little stiflingly crowded for Sam’s tastes. The acid pink and neon green of the zillion adverts and shop signs cut through the darkness on each side of the narrow alleyways, and Sam has to squint his eyes and keep his head facing forward in order to prevent his retinas from burning out at the sheer magnitude of it all. His brother abruptly takes a sharp left at the corner ahead of them and Sam scrambles to catch up before he can lose him in the swarm of people. Dean had decided that the most prudent thing to do with their current windfall was to immediately spend it on as much cheap booze as he could get his mitts on—and that, in itself, probably wouldn’t seem quite so irresponsible if it wasn’t the exact same decision that he always makes when it comes to their reward money. Sam could set his watch to his brother’s idiosyncrasies if he ever felt the need. Especially as they pertain to recreational sin.

Which is how they find themselves at Harvelle’s again, for the third time in almost as many months, slipping past the saloon doors and in alongside the already-rowdy mass of drunk patrons. And apparently, the entire colony has somehow managed to pack itself into this one, tiny bar. Sam turns to say something to that effect out loud, and then changes his mind. He doesn’t need Dean judging him for being overdramatic solely because he doesn’t enjoy cramming himself into a sardine tin with the entirety of Prime’s populace. So he just grits his teeth and wades into the crowd after his brother.

Spectra Prime is the main hub of the entire Spectra galaxy—surprisingly booming, despite the fact that there are no habitable planets a trillion clicks in any direction—and sister city to the more modest capitols of Spectra Minor and Zeta. Sam thinks that if the initial colonists of Prime were anything like its current residents, they probably shrugged and decided to plant themselves in the huge expanse of absolute nothingness out of sheer spite, or maybe laziness—resulting in the largest, entirely man-made metropolis in the known universe. A teetering, top-heavy boom town that caters to every type of vice imaginable while still able to look down its nose at the smaller ghettos, thanks to the ostentatious veneer of its upper reaches.

His brother loves it, never happier than when he can stroll out of a five star restaurant and find a cock-fighting ring two blocks up, but Sam finds it slightly nauseating. Like a deceptively shiny apple slowly rotting away from the inside out, decay hidden from sight, but still very much there. Not to mention that on top of everything else, Sam can’t even walk down a single street in the seedier areas without being forcibly reminded of every other time he’s stepped foot in them. Times when things weren’t as good as they are now. Times when Sam wasn’t as good of a person. He swallows against the grim remembrances and tugs his shirt sleeves down further over his elbows. At least Harvelle’s houses more good memories than bad.

Actually, _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ couldn’t be a more perfect example of the disconnect matched by the city above if it tried. The establishment sits right in between the boundary lines of the lower quadrants and the enforcement division, originally chosen for its proximity to thirsty cops, but the stigma of its zip code doomed it to its eventual fate as a bounty hunter bar. The hunters didn’t care about the quality of the neighborhood as long as the drinks were cheap enough, and the fact that it was adjacent to the city’s enforcement station just meant that they didn’t need to walk that far after dropping off their last catch. So, Harvelle’s ended up managing to carve itself a surprisingly lucrative niche out of thin air. Sam thinks it’s kind of appropriate, considering the history of Prime itself.

Dean leaves Sam in his dust the minute they make it inside and sidles up to the bar right away, intent on being served first due to the weird, whatever the hell he has going on with Jo. Sam briefly considers following him, but the woman in question catches Dean’s eye across the counter and instantly plants herself solidly at his elbow, which means that Sam’s gonna have to pry her off with a crowbar if he feels like talking to his brother anytime soon. He rolls his eyes and lets them catch up. Sam would probably feel more threatened by the whole thing if they actually saw each other more than a handful of times each year. As it is, his attention is quickly redirected to the man in the rumpled suit and tie who trips and bumps into him as he shuffles by. He teeters a little on his feet, drunk probably, and Sam attempts to steady him, but the guy waves him off in favor of stepping up to the bar’s ancient, barely-functional public terminal. Sam hasn’t seen the thing on _once_ , the entire time he’s frequented the roadhouse, and he subtly shifts a little closer, mostly just curious to see if it actually still works.

The man steps up to the activation panel and thunks his briefcase against the base of the projector a few times until it sputters to life. The generated model for the interface appears to be a painfully inoffensive depiction of a young woman—just blandly pretty enough to enjoy, but not to titillate. She smiles pleasantly, but the hardware is ancient and the image fritzes whenever the hologram moves too suddenly. “Thank you for using our intergalactic network terminal, your number one source of g-net information from here and beyond. Sponsored by Biggerson’s. I have placed your classification as: Human. If this is incorrect, please step away from the activation panel and try again.” The anchor waits for the appropriate amount of time before continuing, and the man doesn’t move. “Welcome,” she chirps. “How can I help you today?”

The man coughs wetly into his hand, then croaks, “News,” into the receiver. 

The anchor smiles again. “You have chosen: Current News.” She waits there, image frozen, as the terminal attempts to connect to the net, then stutters into movement again once it succeeds. “Our top stories today: In Earth news, Senator Dick Roman has announced his candidacy for President of the United Conglomerate of Earth. Official sources state that Senator Roman is already leading in the UCE polls by thirty-seven points, despite the fact that his statement was released only this morning. Guess this means that Roman’s campaign slogan has already been proven true, ‘Everybody loves Dick’. Congratulations, Senator.” The generated model smiles benignly and holds the pose as the inner mechanisms start whirring, loading the next segment.

Sam glances around to find that he’s being joined by a smallish crowd now, the other customers apparently equally intrigued by the terminal that they’ve never actually seen functioning. A couple of girls slide up beside him, craning their necks over Suit Guy’s shoulder.

The mechanics finally click into place and the anchor starts again. “In other news, Michael Shurley, the CEO of Enoch Enterprises, released a statement earlier today condemning the actions of the angel commonly known as ‘Anna’. Anna, one of Enoch’s leading law-enforcement androids, disappeared after going rogue roughly two years ago. Although no attributed casualties have ever been reported, local enforcers are urging civilians to report anything that they believe might be related to the case. Shurley stated in an earlier press conference that the entire Enoch corporation is doing everything in its power to bring this rogue angel to justice.” 

The image blurs, and the model is replaced by a recording of a man at a podium.  Michael Shurley, Sam guesses. “The angels were created to bring peace and safety to all organic life-forms settled among the colonized galaxies. They are not a police force,” he reassures, shaking his head sternly. “They are a highly adaptive ground unit fit to act as an impartial eye, to maintain security and promote organic rights for the benefit of all.” Shurley’s eyes glint under his strong brows as he sweeps a hand through his dark, glossy hair. “I am proud to go on record stating that Anna is the only angel that has ever broken ranks since the inception of this company.” Sam scoffs under his breath at the blatant lie, then quiets down as he’s jostled by the impatient fae next to him. “Enoch Enterprises was established as a governing force to foster intergalactic cooperation, and to preserve peace. And we will do whatever it takes to bring this fugitive to justice, and to repay the trust that you have continued to put in us as a brand.” Michael Shurley pins his eyes to fix the camera directly and nods once. “Thank you.” 

The screen blurs again and the anchor reforms. “Reassuring words from Enoch’s CEO. Let’s hope that this entire Anna business is handled soon.” 

The man in the suit coughs again and bends down to the receiver. “Illness.”

The interface cuts off halfway through loading, and stutter-stops back to zero. “I’m sorry, there are no current news bulletins concerning: Illness. Would you like to try another query?”

The guy croaks out, “News,” one more time, and the anchor picks up from where she left off.

The motors continue to whir, and Sam steps away from the end of the broadcast, leaving his curiosity to the rest of the rubberneckers. “In sports news, the Rocketeers have beat the New Giants for the second time out of the allotted five games…” 

Sam slips through a break in the crowd and moves up behind Dean, who has somehow managed to wrangle himself a barstool despite the sheer horde of people. If Sam were a betting man, he’d put his money on Jo having something to do with it. He nudges Dean’s shoulder with his arm to let him know he’s there and violently tamps down on the urge to possessively slide his fingers through his brother’s hair.

Jo glances up to welcome him as he arrives, smile not quite as bright as it is for Dean, but genuine all the same. “Heya, Sam.” She straightens up out of her flirtatious lean and rests a hip on the inside edge of the counter. “It’s good to see you. Can I get you anything?”

“Uh, yeah,” he smiles back. It’s good to see Jo too, despite everything else. “A beer would be good. Thanks.”

Dean raps the back of his knuckles against Sam’s arm and latches onto his order. “Grab him a couple of leaded slugs too.” Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow, but his brother just grins. “I told you Sammy, we’re celebrating tonight. If you’re not singing show tunes by the end of the evening, then I haven’t done my job.” Jo places his requested beer and the two full shot glasses on the counter in front of him, and Sam doesn’t doubt it. He flicks a fingernail against the rim of one of the glasses, watching the cloudy layers swirl within the liquid. The stuff is basically moonshine from the Outer Cluster. It tastes like kerosene, but it turns your single into a quintuple real quick—and it’s much cheaper than ordering regular liquor like a regular person, which Sam suspects is Dean’s _real_ motive here. He lets out a beleaguered sigh and tips the slugs into the rest of his drink, letting the reaction fizz itself out before daring to take a sip. They’re celebrating, after all.

“Hey, where’s your mom by the way?” Dean asks offhand, turning his attention back to his personal bartender.

“Why?” Jo snorts. “You planning on buying her a drink too?”

Dean grins in reply. “I dunno. What do you figure, Sammy? Think Ellen would let me take her out if I asked real nice?”

Sam snorts into his leaded beer. “I think she’d skin the flesh from your bones and wear you like a coat.”

Jo cracks up behind the counter and almost drops the glass she’s cleaning. “I think you should listen to Sam.” She gives the rim one final sweep with her rag, then places it back amongst the rest of the clean barware. “She’s out back,” Jo says, answering Dean’s earlier question. “Getting supplies or whatever.” She glances up past their heads and out at the sea of people behind them. “It isn’t usually this packed in here and she tends to freak whenever we’re at capacity. Because god forbid we run out of pretzels.” Jo rolls her eyes and picks up another damp glass. “She’ll probably be back in a second. And who knows? Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get some beer nuts or something.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t eat the beer nuts,” a voice comes meandering up from behind the bar. Then Ash’s head slowly emerges as he manages to drag his feet underneath him, propping himself up against the faux wood of the counter.

Dean shakes his head and concentrates intently on the glass of whiskey in his hands. “Man, I do not wanna know.”

“Ash, have you seriously been down there the whole time?” Sam asks.

Jo raises her eyebrows with a tight smile and says, “I usually just walk around him.” Then she ducks away to service some of the clamoring patrons at the other end of the bar.

Ash blinks a couple of times, and fixes his bleary gaze on Sam’s forehead. “A couple of big fellas are using the pool table. Figured napping back here would be safer for everyone involved.”

“That is some genius thinking, buddy,” Dean says dryly, but his tone is amiable enough to curb the bite of his words.

“Thanks, man,” Ash replies sincerely. “I also figured out a simple way to disprove wave-particle duality while I was down there, so ‘two birds’ and all that.”

Sam laughs under his breath and wonders how much of his current good mood is due to the company, or just Dean dosing his beer. “Y’know, you might want to work on your terminal over there,” he says, tilting his head back at the now-dark projector. “The picture was stuttering a bit.”

“That’s intentional, Sam,” Ash proclaims, swaying in closer over the bar. “When you have synthetic reproductions of organic beings, it’s important to leave a noticeable gap between the synthetic’s originally designed behavior and the organic’s natural empathetic response.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a cheap can of beer. “You get so close between the two that an organic can’t tell the difference? Then you’ve got yourself a problem.” 

“Then you’ve got angels,” Dean says into his drink, half joking.

But Ash doesn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. “Then you’ve got angels,” he agrees, nodding solemnly. Then he punches a hole into the base of the can and shotguns the entire thing in one go. “Of course,” he says with a loud belch, “that’s just my two cents.”

Sam takes a few minutes to ponder Ash’s statement, sipping in silence, when Jo comes fuming back over to their side of the bar. “You okay?” he asks carefully.

She lets out another angry huff of air and immediately goes back to cleaning glasses, drying so vigorously that Sam’s half afraid she’s gonna bore right through the sides. “Some fucker decided to get handsy when I brought him his order. It’s the 28th century, you think they’d realize that waitresses aren’t on the menu by now.”

Dean’s gaze goes cold like steel. “You want us to go over there and put the fear of god in him?”

Jo makes a face and lets out an amused breath. “ _Please_ ,” she says sarcastically. “Like I can’t handle myself. Gave the guy three black eyes and a healthy respect for human women.” She goes back to cleaning, a little less likely to melt the glass this time. “Just pisses me off is all.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Ash chimes in, “the guy’s eating the beer nuts.”

She laughs out loud this time and tucks a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “Y’know what, Ash?” she says, grinning. “That makes me feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen’s disembodied voice calls out from behind the door to the store room. “Are you actually working out there? Or are you just hustling some poor hunter out of his reward money?” Ellen strides out of the back, eyes scanning over the bar, then instantly brightens once she catches sight of him and Dean. “Jo, you didn’t tell me the Winchesters had stopped by.”

Jo rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Hey, mom,” she says flatly. “Look, the Winchesters have stopped by.”

Ellen steps up behind the counter and rests her elbows on the ring-stained surface. “Hey, boys. Long time no see. What brings you around Prime?”

Dean drains the rest of his drink and thunks the empty glass down onto the bar. “Lycan, actually. Just left him trussed up with the sheriff a couple of hours ago.”

“Yeah?” Ellen asks, tossing Sam an indecipherable look. “And how’d that go?”

Sam makes a face at her strange tone and lets out a bemused breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He thinks that his stupid turbo beer might be having a bit of an effect on him by now, because he’s pretty sure the floor isn’t supposed to tilt like this.

Ellen holds up a staying hand and shakes her head. “I just meant that the hunters passing through here like to gossip—they’re worse than old maids that way. And a fair few of them have been telling some pretty strange tales lately. Wanted to see if you had any clue about that, up in your neck of the woods.”

Dean laughs and wraps his fingers around his elbows. “Ellen, our neck of the woods is basically here to fucking Andromeda. And the entire void of emptiness in between.”

“So tell me, Dean,” Ellen shoots right back with a smirk. “Any strange shit been going on in that void of emptiness?”

Sam grins like a maniac and suddenly remembers why he loves visiting Ellen. “You're talking about Croatoan,” he says.

Ash furrows his brow and leans in to whisper way too loudly into Ellen’s ear. “That’s a word they found carved into a tree at one of the old English colonies in North Carolina.”

“Not helpful, Ash,” she grumbles. “Go sleep it off.  Ellen nudges his face out of hers and turns her attention back to them. “I’m not sure,” she says carefully. “Does this _Croatoan_ have anything to do with the sudden rash of bloody-eyed lunatics popping up and attacking folks?”

“That’d be the one,” Dean pipes up. “Some sort of _Cannibal Mania_ , I think they’re calling it.” He grins to himself, pleased as a crocotta in a dumpster, and Sam can’t even dredge up the effort to be annoyed.

“It’s a virus actually,” he clarifies. “At least, that’s what they’re thinking.”

“So, wait,” Jo interrupts. “Let me get this straight. A virus is driving people crazy enough to _eat_ each other?”

Dean shrugs and leans back on his stool. “That’s what the sheriff said.”

There’s a long, unnerving silence before Jo finally says, “Well, that’s fucking terrifying.”

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen scolds halfheartedly. “Language.”

“Well it _is_ ,” Jo says starkly. Then she lets out a slow breath and drops her rag onto the counter. “Okay, you know what? I think I’m gonna head in for the night.” She glances over at Ellen. “That alright?”

“’Course, honey.” Ellen squeezes her daughter’s shoulder, then heads down the way to tend bar as Jo slips out the back door. And Ash tosses them a parting wave before he wanders off too.

“Think we killed the mood,” Sam says, finishing the last of his beer.

“Suppose we could always move the party somewhere else,” Dean offers, voice low enough to afford them a modicum of privacy.

“Yeah?” Sam grins and leans in closer. “I haven’t turned you off with my talk of terrifying death viruses?”

“Takes a lot more than that, darlin’.”

Sam hums sinfully and pushes away from the bar, intent on heading directly back to their docked ship, when he hears someone mention his name from across the room. He frowns and glances around for the source, but can’t pick out anyone in particular. Dean gives him a look, but Sam just shrugs it off, already imagining what he’s planning on doing to his brother once he finally gets him alone, when he suddenly hears Dean’s name as well, right on the heels of his own.

This time Dean must have heard it too because he scans his eyes around the bar like a fucking bird of prey, lasering in on a small group of hunters at the back. He stiffens coldly once he seems to recognize them and Sam follows his brother’s eye line, curious as to what could possibly cause a reaction like that. Then he immediately follows suit, freezing as rigid as his brother once he spots them.

 _Gordon Walker_  and his two stooges, Kubrick and Creedy, are planted at one of the tables along the far wall. They’re clearly three sheets to the wind by now, if not four, and their voices are raised _just_ enough to be intentionally heard over the rest of the rabble without it being undeniable. Sam actually leans in a bit to listen, and then his lungs seize up in his chest once he catches wind of what they’re chatting about.

“No, no. Alright, I’ve got one.” That’s Kubrick speaking, voice nasally enough to carry across the room. “Where does Dean Winchester go to get a date?”

Gordon chuckles under his breath and flicks his eyes up to the front bar, then glances away quick enough for it to be accidental. It’s not. “I don’t know, Kubrick,” he drawls, clearly aware they’ve hooked an audience now. “Where _does_ Dean Winchester go to get a date?”

“His family reunion, of course.” A breathy, hitched laugh hisses through Kubrick’s closed teeth at his own joke and Gordon raps his knuckles against the table as he laughs along.

Sam glances at his brother in shock, but Dean has spun back around to glare daggers at the counter in front of him, shoulders up around his ears, and clearly bent on ignoring the baiting going on behind them through sheer force of will. Unfortunately, Sam can’t help himself from watching the imminent train wreck unfold.

Creedy is straining up in his seat now, visibly excited by the energy in the room and desperate to be a part of the joke. “No, wait, okay? Let me?” Gordon prompts him with an open hand, and Creedy practically vibrates in his chair as he starts talking. “Why are holidays so cheap for Sam Winchester?” Both Gordon and Kubrick smile wanly and wait for him to finish, and Creedy trips over his own words in excitement as he continues on. “B-because when he goes shopping for his brother and f-for his boyfriend, he only needs to buy _one_ gift.” He spreads his hands in triumph, and his tablemates chuckle lightly at the quip. It’s a lukewarm reception at best, but Creedy seems invigorated all the same.

Kubrick clears his throat and gets them back on track. “You hear about the incest competition?” he asks casually.

Gordon grins wide, teeth cutting a cruel swathe across his face. “Nah, what about it?”

“Dean entered his brother.” Gordon snorts into his beer as Kubrick settles comfortably in his seat, proud as a fucking peacock.

Sam swallows hard—torn between fleeing and punching the teeth straight out of each of their mouths—but Dean doesn’t move an inch. He just clenches his hands into fists and keeps his eyes fixed to the bar in front of him.

“No, you know what?” Gordon starts up again. “I think we’re being a little harsh here, guys.” There’s a low murmur of dissent from the rest of his table, but Gordon holds up a defensive hand. “I’m serious. Dean has really starting acting like a stand-up guy recently, y’know?”

Creedy frowns, utterly confused by the shift in Gordon’s tone. “That so?”

“It is,” Gordon nods. “I guess you could say that he’s really… _coming into his own._ " The other two fucking lose it at the punch line, and a spice shaker crashes to the ground as a flailing hand accidentally knocks it over.

“Alright, that is fucking _it_ ,” Dean snarls, whirling around to face the rest of the room. He shoves himself out of his seat and stalks toward the group of hunters, violence radiating from every pore.

“Dean, wait,” Sam calls after him, tripping over Dean’s empty stool as he chases him down.

“Now hold on, Gordon,” Kubrick whimpers, tears of laughter in his eyes. “That’s not fair. In fact, I heard that the Winchesters took a couple of hot chicks home last night and got lucky.”

Gordon wipes a hand over his mouth as he tries to calm his breathing. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Kubrick says. Gordon raises his eyebrows expectantly, but Kubrick just smiles to himself, fiddling with his empty bottle as he draws out the punch line. He stalls until he has his buddies’ undivided attention, both patiently hanging off his words, then he clears his throat and grins like the fucking Cheshire Cat. “The girls watched.”

Gordon throws back his head and freaking _hoots_ at the payoff, fist slamming against the table as he tries to breathe. Creedy joins in as well, giggling enthusiastically, and then slowly tapering off into silence as Dean’s shadow looms up behind them.

“That’s real funny, fellas,” his brother says darkly. “Quality humor right there. Now I got one for you.” Sam makes it there just in time to hear the sound of a gun being primed. “How many stun blasts to the nuts does it take to sterilize an idiot?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses, reaching out to push his gun hand down. “C’mon, man. Don’t.”

“You should listen to your boyfriend, Dean,” Gordon says coolly, completely calm as he sips at his beer. Then he glances up with a vicious glint in his eye. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say ‘brother’? I meant brother.”

Kubrick relaxes once he sees that Gordon’s got the situation in hand and kicks his feet up onto the table, leaning back in his chair like he’s got nowhere to be. “There’s no reason to get defensive, boys. Only Heavenly Father above can judge your sinful actions.”

Dean scoffs and yanks his hand away from Sam’s, cramming his ray gun back in its holster. He rolls his tense shoulders until he can drum up an approximation of zen, then turns back to the table. “Sure is a crack team you’ve got here, Gordon,” he sneers. “A religious nutjob and a—” he turns to Creedy and pauses, “—whatever the hell this one’s supposed to be.” Creedy jolts insultedly at Dean’s words, then seems to remember the gun and reluctantly goes back to his sullen silence. “Yeah,” Dean continues on, “these are _exactly_ the kind of men I’d want watching my back in the thick of it. Because you do a lot of that, don’t you, Walker?” He leans down into Gordon’s space, planting his hands on the table and narrowing his eyes into thin slits. “Watching your back?”

Kubrick stiffens at the perceived threat, but Gordon just raises an eyebrow and leans in himself. “Not as much as Sam watches yours,” he says, low and even. Then he breaks out into a cruel smile and adds, “I mean in a strictly platonic sense, of course.”

Dean growls again and Sam lets them posture at each other for another few seconds before intervening. “Okay, Dean, that’s enough.” He’s still drunk enough that everything is muzzy, but all of his good feelings from earlier have evaporated. “You’ve made your point. Can we go?”

His brother glares at Gordon for another moment, then slowly stands back upright, stretching his arms out in affected nonchalance. “Nah,” he drawls. “I don’t wanna go yet, Sammy. The night is young.” He sweeps his eyes back over the bar and scans the pickings. “How’s about we go fishing?” A girl with deep magenta skin and wide-set yellow eyes seems to catch his brother’s gaze and she flushes as he winks at her, offering a coy wave in return. 

Sam glances back and forth between the two of them, then sighs as he feels all his earlier plans go up in smoke. “A belanni?” he asks dryly. “Really?” 

“Dude, hell yeah. They’ve got three tits, Sammy.” Dean holds up the appropriate number of fingers as a demonstration, apparently of the belief that a physical gesture will help make the situation clearer. “ _Three_.” 

“Yeah, if you don’t mind the freaking _dentata_ ,” Sam spits under his breath. 

“Well, you know me. Always looking for a challenge.” Dean claps him on the back and strides off to the bar. “Don’t wait up, little brother,” he calls over his shoulder, then slides up beside the belanni girl and whispers something into her ear that makes her giggle and blush again.

Sam can’t do anything other than clench his hands into fists at his sides as Gordon lets out a low chuckle from behind him. “Oh, man,” he purrs. “Sorry about that, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Gordon just grins and ignores him, taking another sip of his beer. “We didn’t mean to scare your sure thing away.”

“No way,” Kubrick chimes in. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”

Sam takes a few deep breaths and calmly turns to face them. “That your ship I saw outside earlier?” he asks bluntly. “With the zardozian tag hitched to the bumper?” 

Creedy nods vigorously in response. “Yup,” he brags, visibly excited that he gets to tell the story this time. “Big fucker too. We took him down all by ourselves, easy as pie.”

Sam barely spares him a glance. “The net’s empty.”

There’s a loud smattering of frantic cursing, and then all three of them scramble to make it out the door, leaving their half-empty drinks behind. A few of the assorted patrons watch them as they go, either curious at the noise or just excited to sneer at any embarrassment they come across. A djinn at the next table over even gives him a thumbs up at successfully clearing the assholes.

Sam just wishes that it made him feel any better.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It’s morning before Sam runs into his brother again. At least, he thinks it’s morning. It’s not like Spectra Prime has a central star to orbit, so other than artificial lighting, life inside of the city is dark whether it’s midnight or noon. He and Dean tend to keep the Impala’s interior lamps rotating throughout the day though, a meager attempt at fostering an Earth-time circadian rhythm. In any case, the tiny vibrations running through the ship’s hull mean that Dean either hopped back on board while Sam was still sleeping and undocked them, or that the Impala suddenly gained sentience and decided to fly off on its own, leaving his brother behind—and as much as that would serve Dean right, it’s definitely the least likely of the two scenarios. So, Sam is roughly eighty-seven percent sure it’s morning when he hears someone dropping the shampoo bottle in the bathroom, then cursing under their breath as they fumble with something else. And then there’s another thump, so they probably dropped whatever that was too. The hours between 5am and 7am are not Dean’s most graceful time of day.

Sam lets out a strained sigh and decides whether or not he feels like hanging onto yesterday’s irritation as he bumbles through making his coffee. He slides his cup under the nozzle and clicks on the brewer, then blearily stares at the machine as it spits out his beverage. Cas isn’t around either, or at least he wasn’t last night, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he was off ship. The third member of their little crew is endearingly obedient—to a fault, more often than not—and he could very well be situated in one of the rear chambers if Dean had asked him earlier. Sam would go exploring to find out, but it really is way too early for anything other than standing. And he’s barely managing that right now. He sleepily blinks at his steaming coffee for a few more moments until he finally finds the energy to scrounge around for a packet of sweetener.

“Mornin’, Sammy,” Dean calls out cheerfully as he strolls through the kitchen doors. They close behind him with an accompanying automatic swoosh and he presses a brief kiss to Sam’s shoulder before maneuvering around him to put together his own cup. Dean is shirtless and his skin is still the slightest bit damp, which means that he’s just out of the shower. Most people don’t use them anymore, preferring the much more timely and efficient refreshers, but the Impala’s almost half a century old and they’ve got a whole heap of outdated tech throughout. Plus, Dean seems to enjoy the pure hedonism of it. “How’d you sleep?” he asks. “’Cause I gotta tell you, man.” His brother slips his mug into place and enters his presets with a cocksure grin. “My night was _fantastic_.”

Sam chokes back the bitterness rising in his throat and stirs his coffee, mostly just for something to do with his hands. “Your dick still attached?” he bites out sharply. Yup, turns out the irritation’s still there. Looks like passive-aggressive barbs it is.

Dean just snorts and turns his attention back to the brewer. “You’ve been listening to too many old wives’ tales, man. The teeth don’t come out to play unless you piss ‘em off. And trust me,” he says, waggling his eyebrows with a sleazy leer. “I most definitely did _not_ piss them off.” Sam flings his spoon into the sink with a violent clink and turns to stalk out of the room, but Dean gets a hand around his elbow before he can completely escape. “The hell, dude?” he asks. “What crawled up your skirt and died?”

“Please, Dean,” Sam grits through his teeth, jerking his arm free. “Please continue the elicit play-by-play of the girl you fucked last night. I would just _love_ to hear more. In fact, why don’t you tell me her favorite color while you’re at it?”

His brother just scoffs at the perceived overreaction and turns back to his coffee. “What?” he taunts. “You pissy ‘cause you had a date with your hand? Don’t worry, Sam, I bet she’s got a sister.” Dean scoops up his mug and rests a hip against the steel counter, taking sips as he casually continues. “Belanni chicks always have sisters, man. The committed couples breed like horny bunnies.” 

Sam thunks his coffee down in frustration and spins to face his brother. “I’m not interested in…” He trails off, holding out an entreating hand.

“Tauline.”

“—Tauline, thank you. I’m not interested in _Tauline’s_ sister.” He rolls his eyes and adds, “Or any of her other relatives either.”

“No,” Dean says grimly, his brittle shell of calm on the edge of shattering. “Instead, you’d rather just mope around in public until you prove Gordon and his goons right about us.” He sets his cup down and steps forward into Sam’s face. “Is that what you really want, Sam? To toss our hard-earned rep out the fucking airlock?”

Sam flinches and leans back from his brother’s censure. “No,” he grumbles. “That’s not what I want.”

“I mean, _sure_ , it only took a little under three decades worth of back-breaking, blood-soaked labor to get our names established,” Dean spits bitterly, “but to hell with it.  _Sammy_ wants to go on a public honeymoon.” He turns on his heel and sarcastically slices his hands through the air. “Of course, that means we’ll have to work twice as hard from here on out. ‘Cause let me tell you, there’s no way in _hell_ the big bads of the universe are gonna give themselves up once they know I’m bending over for my little brother on a semi-regular basis.” Sam’s anger deflates a little and he opens his mouth to concede, but Dean keeps on chugging. “Which _means_ ,” he snarks, “we’re gonna have to get into a full-on shootout every single time we want to bring a bounty in. Sure hope neither of us gets smoked in the crossfire though.” Sam tries to break through the ranting again, but his brother refuses to take a breath. “Not to mention we only get half the chits for corpses,” Dean adds patronizingly. “So we’re gonna have to take on double the hunts just to break even. And that’s all hinging on the assumption that Jody will even _want_ to keep working with us once she knows about—” 

“Dean, shut up!” Sam wraps his hands around his brother’s wrists and locks their gazes before he can work himself up into a frenzy. “I get it, _okay?_  I get it.” Sam holds the stare for a long moment, and then drops his eyes to the floor as he loosens his grip—not releasing Dean completely, but letting his fingers rest against the pulse points instead of crushing them. “I— You’re right, okay?” he says, subdued. “I’m sorry.”

Dean lets out the breath he must have been holding and closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the handle of one of the irregularly sized doors on their fridge. “I know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t—” Dean wets his lips and meets his gaze again, slowly twisting his hands until he can wrap his own fingers around Sam’s. “It’s shitty, man. I know it is.” He snorts, and then adds, “But hey, nothing about this has _ever_ been easy, right?” Sam’s lips tug into a small smile despite himself and Dean starts to grin back in response, but quickly sobers as his brain keeps going. He furrows his brow in concern and raises a hand to trail through Sam’s hair. “I thought you were okay with this whole thing,” he says softly. “We said, going into this—”

“No, I’m fine.” Sam shakes his head with an embarrassed sigh. “I don’t care about that. I swear. Gordon just—” He lets out a strained noise and makes a strangling motion with his free hand. “Y’know?”

Dean chuckles at his pantomime and tugs him down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah,” he grumbles against Sam’s skin. “I most definitely know.”

Sam sinks down into the comforting touch, closing his eyes and letting the early-morning tiredness take over his bones. Dean hums against the side of his head in response, apparently content enough to just hold him for a while. But then his fingertips start to wander across the spread of Sam’s back, one hand inching down his spine to rest above the swell of his ass while the other flirts with the bottom hem of his v-neck. “That’s not PG-13,” Sam mumbles into his brother’s hair, and Dean chuckles as his hand dips even lower.

“I dunno, I kinda feel bad now,” Dean says warmly. “Getting you revved up and then leaving you all by your lonesome last night.” He locks his arms and slowly walks Sam backwards until his hip bumps against the metallic tabletop of the kitchen’s center island. “Poor Sammy,” he drawls against the skin underneath Sam’s jaw. “Did I leave you high and dry?”

Sam snorts at his brother’s ego, but decides to play up the wounded act anyway, hoping it’ll garner him some sympathy. Possibly of the carnal variety. “You know how much I miss you when you’re gone,” he says lowly, intentionally hitting as many of Dean’s buttons as he can.

Dean sucks in a hitched breath, and then groans, pressing further into the cradle of Sam’s hips. “You take care of it yourself?” he asks casually. “…Or were you waiting for me?”

No matter what the truth actually is, Sam knows which answer Dean needs to hear. He ducks his head down, nips at his brother’s lower lip, and says, “My balls are so blue, the smurfs are applying for rental space.”

Dean laughs into his mouth at that, then teasingly slides himself down Sam’s front, rubbing any and everything he can reach on the way by. “Well, let’s see if I can’t do something about that.”

Sam spreads his legs to accommodate Dean’s wide shoulders and lets his head roll back, the steel countertop under his ass propping his hips up and out. “Think I’m gonna let you step out on me more often,” he pants. “If this is the end result.”

His brother just ignores him (already in ‘blinders-on’ seduction mode) and teases at the front of Sam’s sleep pants with his mouth, letting his hot breath wash over Sam’s very-much-awake-now erection. Dean growls deep in his throat, voice rumbling through his chest, and yanks the polyester fabric past the curve of Sam’s ass, allowing the chilled metal to bite against his still sleep-warm skin. Then Dean lunges forward without warning, swallowing his cock down whole in one smooth glide, and Sam does his absolute best to not have an aneurysm on the kitchen counter.

Dean Winchester is ridiculously amazing at blowjobs. On his list of skills, it lies somewhere between breathing and being offensively attractive at the worst possible moments. Now, Sam knows for a fact that his brother has never blown another dude before him—but for the life of him, he can’t figure out if Dean just has a natural aptitude for every possible kind of sexual pleasure or if it’s sheer determination on his part in order to protect his stupidly legendary reputation. Unfortunately, knowing his brother, either option is equally likely.

Sam lets out a broken groan as Dean continues to expertly worship his cock, tongue pulsing deliciously along the underside of the largest vein. He draws back to pull in a breath and a trickle of saliva winds its way down Sam’s shaft to catch in the dark thatch of hair at the base. Dean follows it down the instant he sights it, plush lips tracing over the aching head of Sam’s cock and continuing down to teasingly nuzzle at his balls below. It’s way too early and Dean is way too good at this and Sam isn’t going to last very long at all. He slides his hands over his brother’s bare shoulders as Dean laves a flat sweep of his tongue up Sam’s length from root to tip, and then up into his hair, grabbing a fistful of the damp spikes while Dean sneaks a finger back to press at his hole. Sam throws his head back and gasps as Dean pulls him fully into his mouth again, sucking like he’s trying to forcibly pull Sam’s pleasure straight out through his dick. And pretty much succeeding. The hanging cookware above Sam starts clanging as the pans rattle into each other with every slight hitch of his hips. “Dean,” he warns. “I’m gonna—”

“M-hmm,” his brother hums, and not a moment too soon, as Sam’s hips jerk forward, his orgasm rolling through him. Dean moans along equally, if not _more_ enthusiastically, as he sucks him dry—never happier than when he’s making someone else feel good—and Sam would spare a moment to be nominally upset about that if he didn’t feel like all of his internal organs had just melted into liquid. In the best possible way.

Dean spends one more moment suckling his flesh clean, then pulls off to twist around and spit into the sink behind him, taking a swig of his lukewarm coffee to clear the taste. Sam _would_ make a snarky comment, but swallowing anything other than food this early in the morning really doesn’t sound like the most pleasant thing in the world, and Sam can empathize. His brother grins at him in a way that means Sam probably looks thoroughly debauched right now, and then slides back in between his spread thighs, hands slipping under Sam’s shirt to skim over his sides. Dean isn’t hard, which means he probably jerked off earlier while he was in the shower. That, or the belanni girl from last night had been so impressive that she’d actually managed to wear him out. In either case, it doesn’t seem to be too much of a deterrent for his brother’s insatiable libido. “C’mon, Sammy,” he leers, grabbing Sam’s hand and pressing his fingers up against the center seam of his jeans. “You gonna return the favor?”

“Why don’t you get Tauline to help you out with that?” Sam asks innocently, wiggling out of his brother’s grasp and slipping his track pants back up over his legs.

Dean blinks at him. Twice. Then his brain turns back on. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sam scoops up his now-cold coffee with one hand and heads for the automatic doors. “ _Now_ , we’re even,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Have fun being high and dry.”

“Cock-teasing _bitch_ ,” Dean shouts after him, but Sam can hear grudging respect underscoring the insult.

Sam passes through the short hallway and into the Impala’s main living quarters, making a left toward the beaten-up, brown leather couch that takes up the majority of the small room, Dean trailing at his heels the entire way. “I’m gonna put hair-removal cream in your shampoo,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” Sam agrees distractedly, sinking down onto the overstuffed cushions and resting his mug against his knee. “Or you could continue living. Your choice.”

“You’re just lucky fratricide’s illegal,” Dean grumbles, but he thumps down on the couch right next to Sam—propping his feet up on the small, circular coffee table and throwing a casual arm over the back of the sofa.

“Mm,” Sam hums, nuzzling in closer to his brother’s side. “A lot of the stuff we do’s illegal.” His brother grunts in agreement and Sam relishes the body contact for a moment—Dean, warm and shirtless, and pressed up all along his side. He contemplates flicking on the large monitor screen taking up half the wall in front of them as he sips his coffee, but doesn’t feel like the effort of moving would actually be worth it. It’s nice like this, sitting here with Dean. Quiet. “Where’s Cas, by the way?” he asks after soaking up his fill of the uncharacteristic calm. “Didn’t see him last night.”

“He’s keeping the turbines company.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam sighs, because they’ve had this conversation somewhere around three hundred times before. “You can’t just order Cas into the engine room every night. The heat’s not good for his battery. And you know his grace already drains quick enough as it is.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and brings his hand up to play with the ends of Sam’s hair. “Fine, I’ll send him to the loading bay instead. Happy?” 

“Dude, that’s where the coolant loops run. It’s too cold.”

“He’s a friggin’ robot, Sam,” Dean explains exasperatedly. “He doesn’t have to worry about hypothermia.”

Sam frowns at his brother’s strangely adamant reticence and makes a vague gesture to where they’re sitting. “Why can’t he just stay out here? We’ve got a couch. And it’s not like he even _needs_ one anyway.” Dean shifts around awkwardly in his seat, but refuses to meet Sam’s eyes. Or speak up. Or breathe too loudly. “What?” Sam asks warily.

Dean lets out an overdramatic sigh and swings the detachable top level of the table closer in, setting his mug down so that his hands are free. “It just freaks me out when he’s out here and we’re…” he simulates a crude gesture with his left, “— _you know_.” Sam snorts at the sophomoric display, but lets his brother continue. “He tried to give me _tips_ , dude,” Dean says, voice devastatingly even. “I’m serious.”

Sam pauses for a solid minute, sure that he must have misunderstood something along the way. “Tips, like… _tips?”_  His brother just raises an eyebrow in response. “Wow,” Sam says blankly, then fails to stop the question leaping from his tongue in time to close his mouth. “Were they good tips?” 

“Fuck you, _were they good tips?”_  Dean snaps irately, flicking his fingers _hard_ against Sam’s closest shoulder. “What, I’m not dicking you good enough? ‘Cause I sure as hell ain’t hearing much complaining, Mr. _‘oh, Dean, harder’_ three times before bed.”

Sam shoves his brother away as he rubs at his wounded shoulder. “I thought we were talking about Cas,” he points out, trying to redirect Dean’s ire away from his poor, bruised arm.

Thankfully, Dean acquiesces and slouches back in his own seat. “Look,” he starts, “I know it’s not like he’s got the proper equipment or anything,” he throws in another inappropriately childish gesticulation, “but junkless or not, I just don’t need the guy listening in on our alone time.”

He mulls over his brother’s statement for a moment as he tries to keep a straight face. “Well…actually, he probably does.”

Dean goes white. “Probably does what? Listen?”

“What? _No_ ,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “Have the proper equipment.”

Dean frowns at him as he tries to wrap his head around the concept. “The fuck would they give him a dick for?” he asks incredulously. “He’s a _droid_ for god’s sake.”

“Well, yeah, Dean, but he’s an _angel_. They’re supposed to be completely identical to humans in every single way. Y’know, so they can pass undetected or whatever if they need to.” Sam shifts a little awkwardly in his seat. “…Have you ever checked?”

“No, I haven’t checked!” Dean shoots back. “Why would I _check?_  You care so much, _you_ ask him to drop trou.”

“ _Jesus_ , dude. I’m not gonna molest our robot.”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t unwrapping that trench coat.”

Sam doesn’t have anything he can possibly say to that, so they both just end up sitting there, uncomfortable in the strained silence. “When did you say he could come out?” he asks eventually, trying to salvage the ease of their earlier moment.

“I dunno,” Dean sighs, yanking his mug back up from the table. “ _Daytime_. I figured like ten o’clock or something.”

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam drops his head to thunk back against the couch in frustration. “You're only letting him out for like half the day? That’s fucked up, man.”

“I don’t need him puttering around in here when I’m still sleeping,” his brother says defensively. “He watches his fucking cartoons at the ass crack of dawn whenever he’s in here.”

“So, who cares?”

“So, it’s _annoying_ , Sam.” Dean glares like he’s still pissed at him, but throws a leg over Sam’s bent knee, shifting until he’s comfortable. “You sleep like the fucking dead, so _I’m_ the one who has to deal with it. And how is that fair?” He flings an explanatory hand back towards the bulkhead doors. “Plus, it’s not like we have a bunch of extra suites he can crash in. Baby wasn’t built to hold three full-sized dudes.”

Sam slowly raises a skeptical eyebrow. “ _Baby_ held three dudes fine for almost our entire childhood,” he says dryly.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, and you were a whiny little brat about it the whole damn time.”

“Whatever. I’m going to let Cas back in,” he says, rising from the couch and dumping Dean’s leg back on his own side. “And I’m gonna tell him he’s allowed to chill in here whenever he wants.” Sam pauses halfway across the room and twists around to level a stern finger at his brother’s face. “And if you override my order, I’m gonna make your life a living hell. Seriously.”

“Wouldn’t have to try very hard,” he hears Dean quietly snark at his retreating back.

Sam very studiously _ignores_ his brother and makes his way through the rear hallways of the ship, following the dim yellow of the safety lighting until he comes upon the imposing, solid-steel vault of the engine room. He politely knocks a few times to announce his presence, then presses his thumb to the keypad on the wall, slipping between the gap of the slowly separating doors. They finally finish pulling open with a heavy creak and Sam finds Castiel planted, motionless and attentive, in the direct center of the room. The heat in here is stifling, the thick air wafting over Sam’s face as the vents groan under the ship’s speed, but Cas seems completely unaffected by the uncomfortable temperature. His heavy trench is still draped over his shoulders and the full suit he always wears underneath remains perfectly immaculate. Not a bead of sweat or hair out of place to speak for the excessive warmth of the room.

“Uh…hey, man,” Sam says, voice raised a little over the clamor of the engines. “Dean send you here?”

“Yes,” Cas replies straightforwardly. “I was…waiting.” He shifts a little, hands flexing against the sides of his coat.

“Okay. Well, sorry about that.” Sam clears his throat guiltily. “You can come out now,” he offers. “If you want.”

Cas blinks at him for a moment, then nods his head stiffly. “Yes,” he says again. “That would be amenable.”

Sam chuckles under his breath at the eccentricities of their robot. “Okay, Cas. C’mon.” He lifts a friendly hand to thump against Cas’s back as he passes by, then follows the angel back toward the ship’s living quarters. “Dean’s just being an ass, y’know,” he says as they pass through the main doors. “You don’t need to listen to him if you don’t want to.”

“Dude, he’s an _android_ ,” Dean scoffs from where he’s still sitting on the couch, not even looking up to glance at them. “Pretty sure if he doesn’t obey a direct order, his head will explode. That’s like, Laws of Robotics 101.”

Cas leans in, apparently intent on immediately disavowing Sam of any false assumptions. “Your brother is correct. Not about the exploding,” he explains hastily. “I assume that was a colorful metaphor on his part.” Sam holds back a laugh at Cas’s earnestness and does his best to appear sincere. “As my priority commander,” Cas continues, “any of Dean’s potential orders would supersede your own orders about not following any of his potential orders.” He quirks his head. “It does present an interesting curl in the metaphysics, but I’m not entirely sure it’s a risk worth testing out.”

“Well, let’s make sure we don’t then,” Sam says amiably. “Kinda prefer your head where it is.”

Cas nods again. “It is more useful when it’s intact,” he agrees.

Sam heads over to the couch, flicking the nape of Dean’s neck as he passes by, and scoops up his coffee again. “How’s your grace handling, by the way?” he tosses back at their droid. “Been awhile since you had a check-up.”

“I’ve been busy,” Dean mutters under his breath, but Sam ignores him in favor of Cas.

“How long have you got ‘til you need another charging?” he asks casually.

The angel stares off into the distance for a moment, adopting that squinty-eyed look he always does whenever he’s processing some bit of internal data, then brings his attention back with a clear-eyed stare. “Based off my current levels, I’ll be able to run for approximately two point six days before needing a mandatory recharge.”

Sam hums in response. “Well, maybe _Dean_ can do something about that,” he says pointedly.

“Maybe _Dean_ was planning on doing that anyway, even without any annoying little brothers butting their heads into other people’s business,” Dean grumbles back.  He drains the rest of his coffee in one gulp, then pushes against his knees and rises from the couch. “Alright, Columbo,” he says, striding over to the largest segment of open floor space. “Let’s pop the hood.”

Cas obediently sits down right where he is, crosses his legs, and shuts himself down. The light fades from his eyes completely as he slumps forward, and Sam tilts his head as he observes the android. Cas can pass for human around pretty much anyone other than another angel, and it’s only in moments of complete stillness like this that he looks even remotely synthetic. It would be unsettling if it wasn’t so useful.

Sam takes a seat along the back of the couch and sips at his beverage as he watches his brother putter around for his tools. “He’s losing grace faster than he did last month,” he says evenly.

“Yeah, well maybe he’s watching porn when he’s on his own. Vids drain his levels quicker.” Sam rolls his eyes at the ridiculous thought, but he's been trying to pick his battles lately. Dean raps his knuckles against the top of Cas’s head a couple times, making sure he’s out, then grins as he settles down at the angel’s back. “There but for the grace of God go I. Right, Sammy?”

He snorts into his mug. “If you can actually tell me who you’re quoting right now, I will willingly forfeit my portion of the next bounty.”

His brother stares off into the middle distance with an over-exaggerated look of contemplation. “Sonny Bono,” he declares assuredly.

“Y’know,” Sam chuckles. “I’m actually gonna give you a chit and a half for creativity.”

“Ooh,” Dean jokes playfully. “I’ll be loaded.”

Sam finishes his coffee and slinks over to settle himself down on the other side of Cas, watching as his brother presses a thumb to the space under the droid’s ear until Dean's pale blue cybernetics holographic opens up to hover over his right forearm. “You think he likes you better than me?” he asks, trying not to sound too petulant.

“Well, I did glue his sorry ass back together,” Dean says distractedly, double-checking the read-outs. “Maybe he just likes my magic touch.” He tosses Sam a grin and wiggles his fingers.

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Green Thumb,” Sam says patronizingly, falling back and stretching out across the floor. After a moment of listening to his brother work, he frowns and props himself up on his elbows. “Or would it be _silver_ thumb?” Sam makes a face. “What’s a robot color?”

“I dunno,” Dean grunts, tugging at a hidden piece of paneling on the back of Cas’s neck until it pries loose. “Titanium thumb, maybe?” He reaches back to yank over an old power cord, then plugs the port into the socket connector at the back of the angel’s head, siphoning off electricity from the ship itself. Dean keeps one eye on Cas and one on the stream of numbers rolling across his cybernetics pop-up as he reaches out his left hand to lightly rest his fingers around the power cable. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, Cas will write you all the sonnets you could ever want.”

Sam snorts and shoves at his brother’s leg with his foot, then lets it sit there under Dean’s knee instead of expending the energy to pull it back. “It’s just ‘cause he met you first,” Sam mutters.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself, man.” Something in the readings apparently finally does whatever Dean wanted it to, and he yanks the plug out of Cas right before the levels can redline. He checks the numbers one last time, then taps his cybernetics off with a pleased look and screws Cas’s cover panel back into place—his synthetic skin immediately sealing closed around the panel’s edges until the unbroken flesh is indistinguishable from an organic’s again.

The angel’s head jerks up instantly, the blinding light of his grace beaming through his irises as he reboots. “ _Ziro noco iad Castiel_.” 

“It’s weird that he always says that,” Sam muses half-heartedly. “What do you think it means?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, it’s friggin’ _Enochian_ , man. It’s gotta be programmed in or something.”

“I just think it’s strange that the translators don’t pick it up,” Sam mutters defensively.

His brother lets out a painfully sarcastic sound. “If we could translate Enochian, then how would the government hold onto all its shady secrets?” Sam nods in grudging agreement and Dean scoots back over to his side as Cas finishes booting up, his eyes fading from so-blue-it’s-almost-white to a slightly more human color. “Hey,” Dean chides, batting the heel of his hand against the side of the angel’s head. “English, motherfucker. Do you speak it?”

“I have the ability to speak over six million languages,” Cas replies gruffly as he finally comes back online. “And, yes. English is one of them.”

“Oh good,” Dean says. “I didn’t detach his sarcasm unit.”

“How are your power levels?” Sam asks, steering them back on target because at least _one_ of them needs to be the grown-up here.

Cas cocks his head as he runs through his internal diagnostics. “Grace levels at sixty-four percent,” he says evenly. “Which should provide roughly nine months of energy. Barring any unforeseen, excessive exertions of power, of course.”

“Did you cut him off too early?” Sam asks, slanting his eyes over to his brother.

Dean tugs at his ear and frowns. “Nope. That was the maximum level.” He throws Sam a serious look. “I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe plugging him directly into the ship isn’t good for his battery.”

Cas chimes in helpfully, attempting to cut through their worry. “It is likely that my battery was affected during the initial damage I sustained. Perhaps the overall deterioration was more extensive than just the clearing of my memory banks like we originally assumed.”

Dean shrugs at the possible explanation. “I’ll buy that. Plus, nine months sounds workable enough to me.” He grunts and shoves himself back upright. “Not bad for a walking microwave.”

Cas frowns and leans into Sam’s space again. “I do not possess the ability to reheat food,” he says worriedly. “If that’s something you require, I could attempt to excite the molecules with a blast of plasma.”

“Whoa!” Sam starts nervously. “No, that’s— _no_.” He holds up a preventative hand. “We most definitely _don’t_ need you to do that. At all. With any type of food.  _Ever_.”

The angel contemplates his orders very seriously. “I see,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Dean was just being an ass again.”

_“Hey!”_

Sam throws his head back and cracks up. “Yes. That is exactly what Dean was doing.”

“Y’know what?” Dean snits from where he’s standing above them. “Screw the both of you.”

Sam laughs again, but Cas seems to take something about his brother’s words in earnest. “I do, you know,” he says intently.

Dean blinks at him, but Sam just shrugs. “Do what?” he asks.

“Have genitals,” Cas informs them. “I overheard you discussing the issue earlier and I didn’t want the argument to come in between the two of you. I’d hate for it to become a problem, so I figured I would let you know now.”

“…Thanks, Cas,” Dean grinds out, voice dryer than a Darune sand hill. “That’s real thoughtful of you.”

Sam slowly rises to his feet and smugly nudges at his brother’s shoulder. “He was in the engine room all night.”

“Uh, yeah, Sam. I know. I’m the one who put him there.”

“I’m just saying. If he heard _that_ , then…”

“I _know_ , Sam,” Dean growls, stalking into the cockpit and yanking the thin material of their makeshift room divider closed behind him.

Sam fights back a grin, splitting his gaze between the angel still sitting on the floor and the patched curtain that Dean is ineffectively attempting to hide behind. “So is that a ‘yes’ on the whole couch thing, or what?”

 


	2. Such a Holy Place to Be

“Now, you’re going to want to set your roasting temperature to four hundred degrees,” the cheerfully plump rugaru reports from the monitor screen. “Any more, and you’re going to burn your galley down. Any less, and your chickee might fly away.” She chuckles pleasantly at her own joke, tinny laughter buzzing a bit as the satellite reception wobbles

“Four hundred degrees, Dean,” Castiel informs him from the couch. “That’s important.”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to fixing up Baby’s ancient wiring, wrist-deep in the side paneling of his ship. Sometimes he really feels like murdering his robot. 

He thinks he could probably get away with it too. At least, out here. There ain’t a whole lot of respect for authority in outlaw space. Dean supposes that, technically speaking, both bank robbery and mail fraud are still illegal, even off world. But this far out, no one can hear you scream anyway. Not to mention that even if someone did manage to catch your dastardly deed on vid, the six closest galaxies would probably fight over jurisdiction for so long that you’d be dust before they ever got around to handing you a subpoena.

Unless an angel caught up to you, that is. Dean chuckles at the irony as he rewraps the casing on a fraying battery wire. Cutting through red tape seems to be one of the angels’ Swiss Army knife settings. Guess the courts figure that if one of them smites you, you probably deserved it—and why bother with an unnecessarily messy trial if they don’t have to? It’s not like the droids can disobey the Enochian legal parameters drilled into their CPU. Except that Anna chick, apparently—and their own little Castiel, of course. Although, to be fair, Dean’s not sure how much of that is due to some inherent flaw in the angel’s system or just the indiscriminate frying his brain took while springing him from the Pit. 

Luckily for him and Sam, Cas’s skillsets tend to fall more along the lines of tracking credit trails and patching up bruises instead of indiscriminate murder. Dean sniffs and swaps out the head of his multi-tool, stretching up to give the nearest bolt another good tightening. Probably a smart idea to stay on their droid’s good side though, just to be safe. 

Plus, it’s unbelievably fucking handy that he can process info at the speed of thought. Sam used to have to track retinal scans by hand, plugging charge after charge into his cybernetics while Dean sat around and moaned about the excruciating boredom. Now they can just let their angel off his leash with a, “Go get ‘em, boy,” and Cas has their perp located in milliseconds, with only a two point margin of error. Also, he doesn’t shed. Dean’s not exactly sure if it counts as the pet his little brother is always pestering him about, but a top-secret government angel is way cooler than some stupid Magellanic teacup-hound anyhow.

Yeah, alright. He guesses Cas can stay. Scrapping him for parts probably wouldn’t even net them that much anyway. 

The monitor flips back from an ad break and Dean spares the screen a glance, accidentally grazing his fingers over a heated cathode. He curses under his breath as he shakes out his slightly singed hand, but flicks his attention back to the stupidly addictive show anyway. It’s rare that he and Cas can peaceably share TV time like this without Dean wanting to tear his eyes out, but the Impala was way past due for a tune-up—which meant that Dean had to play nice if he wanted access to the living quarters. Especially since Sam had declared a moratorium on forcibly ordering their angel to a different section of the ship a few months ago. So, he sucked it up and decided to go along to get along. Cas agreed to compromise on the channel selection if Dean turned his music down enough for the TV to be heard, and now they’re watching the only thing they could find that they can both stomach. Which turned out to be a cooking show, who knew? 

Currently, Cas is learning how to properly baste some kind of water fowl, and Dean is half-heartedly listening for professional tips as he squints at his Baby’s guts. They don’t _need_ to cook anything by hand on the ship—the kitchen’s meal printer takes care of most of the dirty work—but there’s a certain satisfaction in doing things the old-fashioned way sometimes. Plus, it’s usually the only way he can get his overly picky, exotic bird of a brother to eat anything that isn’t take-out. Dean’s almost positive that the kid’s half plant or something, and he just gets all of his nutrients from photosynthesizing the ambient starlight. It’s the only thing he can think of to explain how the guy managed to get so huge on a diet of mostly _foliage_.

Speaking of his gigantor brother, Sam chooses that moment to come casually strolling through the hallway from the kitchen—bearing beer, which makes Dean very happy to see him indeed—until he gets close enough to tap at the side of Dean’s temple, shutting Billy Squier off mid-lyric. “Hey!” he barks, swiping at Sam’s already retreating hand.

“Seriously, Dean,” his brother says plaintively. “Is it humanly possible for you to listen to _anything_ other than classical music? I’m begging you here.” He irritatingly backs out of reach the second Dean attempts to make a move for the beer _clearly_ meant for him, then nags, “It’s hard enough to read in the other room without your stupid frontman screeching at me to _stroke him_.”

Dean snorts and makes another fruitless grab for the bottle. “You just don’t appreciate the greats, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes and feints again, laughing as Dean’s overreaching sends him swinging back into the ship’s wall. “I can’t believe you’re actually sitting in this thing,” he says, trailing a finger along the multicolored material of his newly-constructed hammock. Sam drags the fabric in closer, then leans down to playfully gnaw at Dean's neck, teeth nipping over the swell of his Adam’s apple. “You know it’s gonna drop you on your ass the instant you breathe wrong, right?” he points out. “What the hell did you even hang it up with?”

“I like it,” Dean responds childishly, making a big show of settling in even deeper amongst the swaying fabrics. 

Actually, Dean mostly tacked the hammock up for plausible deniability—to make up for the very obvious _single_ queen bed built into the back wall. He and Sam had shared that exact bed for pretty much their whole lives. Under strict orders from their father at first—as it was safer, recessed into the wall like that—while John always slept on the couch, first line of defense in case of any unwanted intruders or escaped bounties looking to settle a score. A large portion of Dean’s childhood memories involve tiptoeing around the snoring silhouette of his dad in order to sneak gaming cartridges back into bed without waking the slumbering giant.

He and Sam had tried to split the sleeping arrangements for a hot minute, after their dad _had—_  Dean swallows hard and forcibly changes his train of thought. … _After_. But by that point, it was just too ingrained into both of them to sleep anywhere else, so they gave up trying. Plus, Dean kinda likes sleeping with another warm body beside his own—especially when that body is amenable to the occasional middle-of-the-night quickie—but that doesn’t mean that Joe Everyman needs to know anything about anything.

He’d actually used the couch as justification for a while in the privacy of his own head, figuring that if anyone happened to come across their little living area, they’d assume that one of them slept on the pullout, but Cas had staked a subtle claim on the beat-up sofa from the very first instant he’d laid optics on it and with his newfound free reign of the ship, it seems to mainly be angel territory now. And who is Dean to make his killer death robot unhappy? So, with three guys clearly cohabitating the cramped space, a hammock seemed to be the most logical Plan C. Dean frowns to himself and wonders if it really matters in the long run. It’s not like anyone ever boards their ship anyway.

Sam braces his free hand against the wall behind Dean’s head, making sure not to put any extra weight on the delicate cloth, and raises an eyebrow. “You wanna skip the middleman and just put up a sex swing?” he asks dryly.

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean warns. He gives up on the beer and reaches over to pluck at the long sleeves of Sam’s v-neck instead. “Aren’t you hot in this? It’s like ninety degrees in here, man.”

Sam hums noncommittally, and then finally hands him his drink in exchange for a dry kiss. “Maybe not all of us are blatant exhibitionists like you,” he teases, tweaking at Dean’s bare nipple. Sam turns to head back into the hallway, but gets caught up in the vid on the monitor screen, leaning a thigh against the couch as he patiently joins them in watching the cooking show for a bit. “Hey, Cas,” he says offhand. “You know you can probably get any of these vids on your own internal screens, right? I mean, I doubt there’s anything here that someone hasn’t already put up online.”

“The majority of the vids uploaded to the g-net have been ripped from live broadcasting without the permission of the original creators,” Cas rattles off by rote. “Streaming of such copyrighted material would be…unethical.” He doesn’t turn his head from the monitor, but his eyes shift slightly, like this isn’t the first time he’s considered it.

Dean leans closer in toward the couch, hammock swaying gently. “What’s a matter, Cas? Can’t get it up for anything on the shady side of the thin blue line?”

Cas nods and looks constipated. Which, granted, is kind of default for him. “My programming does require my actions to fall along certain moral parameters when it comes to Enochian legality. While I do believe that I _would_ be able to physically override the directive if I so chose, I am uncertain if such a flagrant breach of angel protocol wouldn’t alert Enoch’s network to my presence. And subsequently, if that wouldn’t bring the fullest extent of the law down upon both of your heads.” He blinks twice, then casually turns his attention back to the screen. “As I am clearly stolen contraband—or at the very least, unregistered government hardware—‘harboring of a fugitive’ would be the most likely charge.”

Sam’s eyes jerk up and lock with his across the room as they share a few seconds of quiet terror. “Okay,” Dean breathes eventually. “Yeah. Maybe a good idea to lay off the downloading then.”

“That was my initial conclusion, yes.”

A shrill warning tone from the cockpit breaks through the moment and Dean has to set down his woefully untouched bottle in an attempt to free himself from his cloth prison. He very intentionally _ignores_ his brother’s obnoxious enjoyment of his misery as he struggles with the impossible snarl of fabric, then strolls past his shipmates to finally shut off the autopilot’s ear-piercing beeping. According to the readings, they’re about five minutes out from Spectra Prime’s main port, so Dean hops over the bench seat and flips the switch to take full control of the steering.

Sam shuffles up behind him, Cas trailing at his heels, and leans a shoulder against the side windshield, fingertips dancing over the seat’s stitching as he affects an obviously phony nonchalance. “I’m still not sure why we have to come _here_ ,” he says, for probably the millionth time in the last two days. “Can’t see why Prime would know anything more than anywhere else.”

Dean tunes out his brother’s whining in favor of scooping up one of his muscle tees he spies crammed into the cushions. It’s the blue one with the leather paneling on the sides, so he yanks it over his head—a little bit because it’s the closest thing in reach, but mostly ‘cause it makes him look damn good.

“Dean, seriously,” Sam probes again, a dog with a bone in his teeth. “We could just head somewhere else. Why does it have to be Spectra?”

“Sammy, we’ve already had this fucking conversation,” Dean says evenly. “Too many damn times.”

“Three and a half,” Cas adds helpfully from behind Sam’s back.

His brother squares his shoulders and ignores the angel. “Look, just because we’re running a little low on cash right now doesn’t mean this slump’s gonna last forever.” He clenches his hand against the leather of the seat as he comes up with today’s newest argument. “We aren’t the only people in the universe who are struggling because of Croatoan,” he points out.

Dean lets out an incredulous sound, then twists to level Sam with a wry look. “No, but we _are_ the only ones who depend on non-infected felons to make a living.” He rests his elbow against the back of the seat to face his brother more fully. “When’s the last time we brought in a bounty _alive_ , Sam? Two, three months ago?” Dean pauses for an answer, but Sam just sets his jaw in sheer stubbornness. “We can’t keep scraping by on half-chits each job, dude. What do you plan on doing when we can’t make enough for food, huh?” He throws a hand out. “You gonna sell Cas to the nearest scrapyard?”

Cas clears his throat. “I would rather you didn’t,” he pitches in calmly.

“Far as I can tell, Prime’s got the lowest number of reported croats by a mile,” Dean continues. “Which, to me, screams _answers_. And I got questions, so we’re fucking going.”

Sam exhales sharply through his nose, knowing when he’s beat, but refusing to give in. “But I still don’t see why—”

“’Cause I’m the oldest and I _said_ so,” Dean interrupts loudly. “Now drop it.”

Sam throws his head back in exasperation, like he’s still a pissy fucking teenager, and stomps away from them to go collect the rest of his things. Dean can hear an angry thunk against the coffee table as Sam throws himself onto the couch in order to slip on his boots.

“Your brother isn’t fond of visiting Spectra Prime,” Cas says quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles, both hands back on the controls. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“I assume it has something to do with his past experiences in the city.”

“Batting a thousand today, Cas,” Dean says dryly.

Cas glances back into the main living quarters, quietly observing as Sam tugs on his vest. “I’ve offered to provide a sympathetic ear, but he doesn’t seem to like to talk about it.”

Dean sighs and takes a moment to roll the stress kinks out of his neck. “Can you blame him?” he asks soberly.

The angel hums in subdued contemplation, and then changes the subject. “I should come down to the city with you,” he offers. “For protection.”

“Not a good idea, buddy. Enoch’s got angels crawling all over Spectra.” Dean gives him a weak smile to offset the refusal. “They’re still looking for that Anna chick and it really ain’t smart to go tossing you into the fire like that.”

Cas fixes him with that unblinking, too-earnest stare of his. “The rest of my brethren are dangerous,” he says slowly. “I should be there to defend you in case something goes wrong.”

Dean snorts at their android’s overprotectiveness. “I’m pretty sure we’ll be fine, man. Thanks.”

Cas shifts a little awkwardly, clearly unwilling to bring up the elephant in the room, then decides to anyway. “Dean, what if one of them recognizes you?”

“They won’t,” he says emphatically.

“We can’t be sure of that—”

“Cas, I said _no,_ dammit!” he commands harshly. “If they find you, then you’re toast.” Cas blinks at him, apparently surprised by the strength of his denial. There’s a short moment of silence until Dean finally lets out a breath. “Look, just stay up here and watch out for yourself. Okay?” Cas remains silent, which means he’s pissed. He has no choice but to obey a direct order, but that rarely stops him from being a giant baby about the whole thing. Dean turns to gauge his mood, but the robot is already gone, trotted off back to the main room with Sam, presenting a united front of whiny assholes who are currently mad at him. “Friggin’ perfect,” Dean grumbles unhappily to himself, then he reaches out to click the landing gear on.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Spectra Prime’s upper reaches are a world away from the perpetual clamor and excitement of the lower quadrants. All it takes is stepping over a single district divider, and the state-of-the-art diminishers instantly cut off any extraneous sounds or smells from the shifting markets of skid row. Dean takes a moment to glance over his shoulder, always weirded out by the instantaneous switch to complete silence, but the busy hubbub of the lower city keeps on keeping on without them, vendors mutely going about their business only a few feet away. He shakes his head as he marvels at just how loaded the average reach resident must be. A noise blackout like that’s gotta cost the district taxpayers way more than just a pretty penny.

Dean flicks his eyes over to Sam’s immovable silhouette, and then presses a light hand to the small of his back in order to get him moving again. “You alright?” he asks quietly, steering his brother up the iron-worked balustrades adorning the climbing stairways.

“No, Dean. I’m pretty far from alright.” Sam twitches away from the contact in favor of pulling himself up by the decorative railing. “Pretty sure this goes against Step Five,” he jokes a little bitterly.

“Sammy,” he sighs.

“What?” Sam hisses back, voice tight. “You wanted me here, I’m here.”

They make it onto the first landing and stride past an elegantly-sculpted row of greystones. “Look, I know he’s a douche,” Dean says, trying to catch up to his brother’s intentionally too-brisk gait. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t help.”

Sam actually stops in his tracks to pin him with a look. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“He’s helped us before.”

“He’s helped _himself_ before,” Sam rebuts. “We were collateral gratuity.”

Dean snorts at the wordplay, then nudges at his brother’s hip to get him moving again. “Well, maybe helping us with this will be in his best interests too. The ‘devil you know’, and all that.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but at least he looks a little bit less like he wants to beat Dean’s face in. “Right,” he says sarcastically. “Well, this _‘devil you know’_ , Dean, is still a friggin’ demonae.”

A cool, luminescent glow pours out of the open doorways from the chain of expensive lounges up ahead, and they slip up a higher staircase in order to avoid the crowd of perfumed revelers. One of the women—a fuel sheikh probably, judging by the robes—has clearly been doing a tad too much celebrating and attempts to climb up onto the outer railing, to the dismay of her very vocal entourage. Dean turns away from the spectacle a little ruefully, following his brother’s retreating back. Even though it would be absolutely hilarious to see a one-percenter get stuck in the safety-grav, they really don’t need to deal with any enforcers tonight.

“Y’know, Sammy,” Dean says casually, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral. “It never hurts to keep an ace in your back pocket. Just in case.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks flatly, finally coming to a stop at their destination’s landing. He gestures up toward the ornate façade of The Crossroads with a flick of his fingers. “What about a king?”

 _The Crossroads_. Spectra Prime’s friendly neighborhood nightclub- _slash_ -restaurant- _slash_ -meeting place for anyone desiring a touch of glamour to go along with the typical shady backdoor dealings of the elite. The establishment boasts an air of high-class legitimacy, but Dean doubts if there’s anyone within the nearest ten galaxies who doesn’t know that it’s actually the unofficial front for Hell—one of the most powerful drug cartels in the known colonies. It’s easily the _snootiest_ syndicate, if not the largest, as it caters strictly and exclusively to the rich and powerful. Or at least, it does now, under its new management. Crowley, demonae and colloquial ‘King’ of the aforementioned cartel, has been running the joint smoothly for the last few years or so, ever since he managed to usurp the proverbial throne from his predecessor. The fact that he’s actually a step up from the previous sovereign doesn’t say much about either of them.

Dean glances over at his brother, watches him swallow hard as he steels himself for the visit. “In and out, Sammy,” he promises quietly. “Half-hour, tops.”

Sam nods stiffly and takes a halting step forward. “Half an hour,” he repeats, hip-to-hip with Dean as they stride past the massive, gilded doors. “Seriously, Dean. I’m setting an alarm.” He says it like it’s a joke, attempting to smile a little. But it also kind of isn’t. And Dean reads the message loud and clear.

“You got my word, Sammy,” he says with a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder.

They pass through the dimly-lit entryway, then slow to a stop as the narrow corridor abruptly opens up into the ostentatious spread of the main dining room itself. The dark, cast-iron tinge to the large chandeliers and private tables comes off as jarring against the lewd sensuality of the demonae working the room—the lustrous, red crystals dripping from every inch of the lighting fixtures match the salaciousness of the ambiance much better than the ‘classy’ decor attempts to mask it. Dean runs a clinical eye over the booze-gorged clientele, looking for a glimpse of the man they’re after. The patrons seem to vary over a wide range of species and races, but every single server, bartender, and dealer on the floor is demonae. Looks like Crowley prefers to hire in-house from the cartel itself.

One of the dealers, a slip of a thing with pale, brown hair and jutting cheekbones, slides her fingers up his brother’s shoulders in silent invitation. Sam’s hands remain in stone-tight fists at his sides, and Dean shoots the girl a heated glare before she can even make an offer. She blinks in curiosity, the inky depth of her gaze catching the light from the overhead chandeliers, then shrugs as she moves on her way, probably surprised by the vehemence of their rejection.

All demonae have the same large, solid-colored eyes with no discernible iris—mostly black, although the ruling class seems to have some variation in color—and it’s pretty much the only obvious trait distinguishing them from humans. Which is actually the case for the majority of organics that Dean’s happened across. There are little differences here and there, but most advanced species are bipedal. He guesses that it probably has something to do with golden ratios or whatever—or maybe evolution just got lazy, picked a basic template, and stuck with it.

Dean clears his throat and pulls Sam up with him to the hostess’s booth. The obsidian glint of her eyes flicks down over their inappropriately casual attire for a moment, but she quickly turns the brief look of disdain into a placid smile. “Welcome to _The Crossroads_ , gentlemen,” she purrs. “Table for two? Or would you prefer to be seated at the bar?”

“We’re looking to talk with Crowley.” 

The hostess sucks in a barely-noticeable breath, cleavage hitching against the low neckline of the dress she’d clearly been poured into. “The King is a very busy man,” she says, voice so coldly polite that Dean is surprised ice isn’t falling from her lips. “He can’t be expected to make an appearance for every single customer. But if you have a comment about the service, I’ll make sure and pass it on.”

“I appreciate the offer, sweetheart,” he says darkly, leaning against the iron podium, “but tell him that Dean Winchester wants to see him, so he better get his royal ass out here, pronto.” The demonae swallows back another offended gasp, but stiffly bends down to murmur into the booth’s receiver, and Dean twists around to toss his brother a shameless grin. “Customer’s always right. Huh, Sammy?”

Sam just levels him with a flat stare, clearly unamused.

“His Highness will be right with you,” the hostess says demurely, eyes fixed somewhere around the floor, and apparently cowed by Crowley’s acceptance of their audacious demand. “Feel free to wait wherever you and your companion would like.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the “companion” comment, but they take a few steps to the side until they’re mostly out of the way, loitering around the outskirts of the bar area. He lets his curious gaze slide over the cesspool of rampant debauchery to his right as they wait for Crowley to grace them with his presence. 

Dozens of nubile dealers, clad in as little leather as they can get away with before it becomes a public nudity charge, slink over and around the customers seated at the wrap-around bar. A few are just chatting, describing the selection or working out the details of payment, but most of the demonae are attending to the buyers. The pressurized hiss of a hypodermic going off punctuates the ambient crowd noise every few minutes or so. One of the dealers, a dark-skinned man with an even darker gaze keeps flirting with his djinn client, veering off to thrust the vial against her clothing or hair at the last second. They laugh together, caught up in their own little bubble of hedonism, until he finally brings the bevel down to press against the blue-inked swirl of her forearm. She lets out a wanton moan as the needle descends, then leans up to rub her face against the demonae’s bare chest. Modern hypos like that won’t go off against anything other than organic DNA—a safety measure to prevent accidental misuse or waste—and with the exorbitant cost of drugs nowadays, skin contact is a pretty common failsafe for most suppliers. 

Dean leans back on his heels and cuts his eyes over the rest of the restaurant. He can pick up quite a variety of tinctures and stimulants scattered throughout the constantly moving glass vials, but the popular draw tonight is clearly the Demon Blood—a relatively new drug, named both for the bright carmine color of the liquid and for the kick that it promises. There’s a flash of brilliant red at least three times as often as anything else, and Dean swallows back against the less-than-pleasant memories it brings up. He risks a glance at his brother, but Sam’s gaze is unwaveringly bolted to the floor, and Dean is starting to feel like kind of a dick for pressuring Sam to tail along with him on this little mission. Maybe Cas _would_ have been the safer choice for backup, even counting the possibility of discovery.

“Hello, boys,” comes a voice as deep and smooth as his own top shelf scotch. “You stop by for the diamond caviar? Zagat rated it five out of five.” Crowley comes to a stop in front of them with a click of his heels, perpetual tumbler casually dangling from his left hand. “Of course, if I recall correctly, your tastes tend more towards the _rustic_ than anything else.” Somehow, the condescending sneer comes through with perfect clarity despite the rest of his face not moving an inch.

“Crowley,” Dean greets as civilly as he can force himself to.

“Squirrel,” he shoots back just as evenly, the solid red of his eyes flashing with barbed amusement. “You know, there _is_ a dress code, gentlemen.”

Dean skims his gaze over the crowd again. One of the male bartenders is shirtless except for a choke collar, and most of the women aren’t wearing anything more than a couple of thin, leather straps over the good bits.

“Yeah, and what’s that?” Sam snits, clearly on the same wavelength. “S&M _chic?”_

Crowley lifts a flirtatious eyebrow. “Well, if you’re ever in the market for stilettos and a leather bustier…”

“Alright,” Dean growls, forcibly squaring the conversation back on business. “This ain’t a social call.”

“Never would have guessed,” the demonae quips. “Private booth, then? Or we could always have a go at each other out here. Give the groupies a floor show.” He waits patiently, insufferable smile firmly planted in place until they give in and step down into the restaurant proper, shadowing Crowley to one of the luxury tables tucked into the back. He catches one of the waitresses on the way by with a firm grip around her arm. “Bring out one of the house specials for me and my associates, would you, darling?” She flits away with a reverent nod, and they take their places around the expensively cushioned booth. Perfectly civil, like they don’t want to rip each other’s throats out.

“So,” Crowley starts. “What brings you boys to my humble watering hole?”

Dean leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, mostly just to see Crowley twitch at the blatant ­lack of manners. “We’ve got some questions, and we’re hoping you’ve got the answers.”

He purses his lips in subdued interest. “I suppose I’ve got some time to kill until the high-rollers need my attention. Why don’t you hit me with your best shot?”

“Croatoan,” Sam says, sober as the grave.

“Dengue Fever,” Crowley shoots back coolly. He splits his attention between the both of them. “I’m sorry, I assumed we were listing infectious viruses. Is there a question in there?”

“What do you know about it?” Dean asks, cutting through Crowley’s pretentious bullshit. “Word around the street is that Prime’s _somehow_ managed to duck the worst of it.”

Crowley takes a short breath and spins his glass of scotch. “I know that it’s a pesky little virus causing quite a bit of trouble for the majority of the colonies. I know that ruptured, bleeding eyeballs seem to be the main symptom. And I know that anyone who comes in contact with the infected tends to acquire a sudden, acute craving for _long pig_ ,” he finishes with a smirk.

“Wow, not that impressive,” Sam taunts mildly, settling in against the padded backrest. “Figured a connoisseur like yourself would have more of a finger on the pulse.”

“Connoisseur of worldly pleasures, moose. Not of ghastly, communicable disease.”

“It’s passed through blood contact, Crowley,” Dean butts in. “Everybody knows that. And Prime’s got the lowest reported number of cases out of anywhere within the Inner Cluster.” He lowers his voice and narrows his eyes. “Now, why do you think that might be?”

“Clean living?” Crowley offers. “Frequent prayer? How should I know?”

The waitress seizes the break in conversation to interrupt with a large bowl of what looks like some sort of half-melted insect soup.  _Glop_ might be too appealing a word. Crowley leans in anticipatorily, practically rubbing his hands together in glee, then does a double-take at their identical looks of disgust. “What, you’ve never had arachne cuisine before? It’s all the rage in the Southern Rings.”

Dean swallows uncomfortably and glares at the dish, praying that it isn’t capable of moving across the table on its own. “Think I’ll pass, thanks,” he says, raising a hand to flag the waitress back over. “Excuse me, sweetheart. Any way you can grab me some friggin’ _normal_ food?”

“Of course, sir,” she replies, exactly as bubbly as her four-figure paycheck requires. “ _The Crossroads_ boasts an impressive selection of planetary cuisines from all corners of the known universe.”

“Fantastic,” he breathes in relief. “How ‘bout you whip me up some Earth vindaloo? And maybe throw in a couple of samosas while you’re at it.” Dean risks a glance at Crowley and decides to go for broke. “His Highness here is footing the bill,” he declares, then kicks at his brother’s ankle under the table. “Sammy, you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Sam murmurs into his own lap, clearly itching to get the hell away from Hell as quickly as possible.

Dean’s gaze lingers over his brother for a moment before turning back to the girl. “And how about you make that to-go?”

The waitress scampers off to the kitchen with another nod, and Crowley lets out a dramatic sigh at Dean’s clear gesture. “Look,” he starts again. “I’m not sure why you lads are so set on assuming that I’m lying to you.”

“Because it’s what you’re best at,” Sam spits.

Crowley spares him a look of affectionate exasperation, then turns his attention to Dean. “I’ve done nothing but assist the both of you, anytime you’ve needed me. After all,” he coos, “we’re old friends, you and I. Besties, really.” Dean makes to shove back from the table in disgust, but Crowley latches onto his wrist with an unbreakable grip—demonae strength vastly superior to his human reflexes. “ _Who_ was it helped free your precious little Samantha?” he reminds him, voice like steel, and even more insufferable since it’s the truth. “We split Lucifer’s kingdom—that was the deal, Dean. You got your brother back, _in toto_ , and in return, I moved to upper management. It truly is amazing how short one’s memory gets after a few too many blows to the noggin.” Crowley tilts his head, deliberately letting his expression filter into a deceptive calm. “Ah, but right, I remember. You loathe all of us nasty, nasty demonae simply because _one_ yellow-eyed extremist went ahead and immolated poor, dear Mummy. You do know what Siddhartha said about holding onto anger, right?” 

Crowley suddenly jerks as Sam drops a threatening hand over both of their clasped wrists. “Let go of my brother,” he growls, low and menacing—hatred sparking from his eyes.

The demonae holds Sam’s gaze for a long, indefinable moment, then slowly backs away, hand up in surrender. He runs his fingers over his neatly-trimmed beard, taking a minute to sort himself back together, before speaking up again. “I’m sorry to disappoint, boys,” Crowley says sedately, “but I can’t help you. Unfortunately, my predecessor didn’t have the same business sense I do.” His lips quirk into a subtle smile. “The human element, perhaps?”

Dean fights back a shudder at the continuing mention of the fucking asshole specter who still haunts them to this day. Worse for Sam, of course, but not by much. Lucifer was the only known human to ever take control of a demonae drug cartel—how he managed to pull that one off, no one can say for sure—but the echoes of his exploits are legendary in most criminal circles. He’s been locked up in the Pit for a fair few years now (and Dean grudgingly has to share the credit with Crowley for that one), but even prison can’t seem to put a damper on the myth behind the man.

“The point being,” Crowley continues, “is that when I took over, one of my biggest priorities was re-branding.”

“That like putting up a fresh coat of paint?” Dean snarks.

“Developing a new consumer base,” Crowley responds smoothly. “Under Lucifer, Hell catered to any and everyone. You managed to scrape together enough chits from dumpster diving and back alley fellatio, you’d be a welcome customer.” He leans back in his seat and takes a sip from his glass. “I, however, am of a different mindset.”

“Only the highest-quality junkies and addicts,” Sam says darkly.

“Exactly.” Crowley grins and gestures to the rest of the crowd. “First thing I did was sweep through the place and _personally_ oversee the replacement of every table, chair, and drug crate in this dump. My current clientele is of a higher standard than most of the riff-raff the other cartels service, and it’s not like anyone here is _sharing needles_.” Crowley makes a face at the distasteful concept. “Maybe Spectra Prime is avoiding any unwanted blood-to-blood transfer due to the exceptional class of our drug culture. If that’s the difference between catching or avoiding the dreaded Croatoan…” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Well then, there’s your answer.”

The waitress returns with Dean’s to-go carton, and Crowley takes care of the tab while he and Sam are still sitting there, processing. The silence drags on for another few seconds until Sam’s cybernetics breaks the moment by beeping. “Half an hour, Dean,” he says quietly, and Crowley raises an eyebrow at the statement.

“Yeah,” Dean says distractedly. “Alright, Sammy.” They scoot out of the booth as _least_ embarrassingly as they possibly can until they’re free from the black hole-esque softness of the seat cushions. “We’re outta here.”

“Do come back,” Crowley purrs, completely insincere. “Anytime.”

Dean scoops up his doggy bag with a noncommittal grunt and leads the way through the rest of the restaurant and out onto the wrought iron platforms of the reaches.

“You believe him?” Sam asks mutedly, stepping up to flank his side.

“Everything he said made sense,” he replies.

“Yes it did.”

Dean sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”

Sam gives him a weak smile, breathing easier now that they’re away from the flagrant temptation inside. “Yeah, me too.”

“So,” Dean says cheerfully, reaching into his bag to nab a loose samosa. “We’re down a complete waste of a conversation with absolutely no more answers than we had this afternoon.”

“Feel like giving up and letting the whole thing blow over?”

“Or, we could keep going until we blindly stumble onto a fix,” he mumbles through a mouthful of spiced tubers.

Sam chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, that sounds more like us.”

Dean grins and thumps an affectionate hand against his brother’s back, heading back down the way they came up. “Look, Crowley said he cleaned house, right? Maybe Croatoan isn’t affecting Prime because Mr. Control Freak unknowingly tossed out a tainted pack of needles or something.”

Sam frowns. “You think Croatoan’s spreading through hypos?”

“It passes through blood contact, man,” Dean shrugs. “And if the hypodermic shoe fits…”

“Okay,” his brother sighs. “Makes sense I guess.” Sam scrubs a hand over his face as he runs through the logic. “So, if the rest of the cartels are getting contaminated hypos from the same supplier—”

“—then we need to find out where those supplies are coming from,” Dean finishes, trailing off as he side-steps a bevy of young club-goers. He shoves the rest of the pastry in his mouth and winks at one of the girls. “…Think Lucifer was as OCD as Crowley when it came to record-keeping?” he asks the instant they’re alone again.

Sam swallows hard and shakes his head a little too fiercely. “No,” he says roughly. “He was more hands-off when it came to the cartel stuff. Preferred to delegate.”

Dean pauses at his brother’s clear discomfort. They’ve been skirting way too close to the prickly edges of Sam’s control all night. He considers making a crude attempt at consolation, then decides against it. Handling Sam with kid gloves right now would probably just piss him off more. “Okay then,” he declares, changing tactics. “If we can’t get at the books, then we’ll just have to cozy up to someone in the know.”

Sam snorts, absent-mindedly scritching over the railing with his fingernails. “Meg is _not_ gonna talk to us.”

“You know of another Lucifer loyalist within spitting distance?” he asks bluntly. “C’mon, we might as well _try_ , at least.” Dean tosses him a playful grin. “Spectra Minor’s only a hop, skip, and a spaceflight away.”

His brother lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “Whatever you wanna do, man. This is your rodeo.”

“ _Our_ rodeo, Sammy,” he corrects.

Sam just shoots him a look. “ _I_ wanted to stay on the ship.”

“And that’s why you’re the boring one,” Dean tosses back distractedly, frowning as he paws through his bag of leftovers.

“You okay there?” Sam asks, clearly amused at Dean’s intense scrutiny of the carton.

“Cheap motherfuckers didn’t give me any chutney—”

“ _Dean,_ _watch out!”_ Sam suddenly hisses, yanking him back by his elbow until they’re both hidden behind the corner of the nearest greystone.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“ _Shh—!”_  Sam clamps a giant paw over his mouth. Then he very slowly, very _carefully_ , nudges Dean around the corner of the wall.

Dean rolls his eyes and goes along with his brother’s ridiculous manhandling, flirting with the idea of biting at Sam’s palm, until he catches sight of the woman two platforms over.

She’s a well-dressed, executive type, nothing too out of the ordinary for the upper reaches. In fact, the entire scene would be perfectly innocuous if you didn’t know what to look for. Luckily, he and Sam _very definitely_ know what to look for. The woman slowly scans the thorny framework of staircases, gaze raking over the vacant terraces as she seems to mentally check them off one-by-one. The slight flip of her blonde hair is the only hint of softness to grace her appearance, especially when contrasted against the grim sharpness of her features, and Dean feels a chill run down his spine just looking at her. The starched, charcoal suit would be a dead giveaway even if her too-precise-to-be-human movements weren’t.

She’s an angel.

It’s actually kinda freaky, observing the perfectly faultless movements of a synthetic on a stranger’s body. Castiel was the very first angel that Dean had ever laid eyes on—not counting the faceless, evangelical marching of the early propaganda vids—and the guy had been functionally unconscious through the first couple months of their ‘get to know you’ phase. Way back when, during Dean’s agonizingly awful stretch at the _Perdition Correctional Facility_ —which was exactly as miserable as one could expect from a high-security, below-ground prison with a massive hard-on for _alternative_ inpatient therapy. It was a giant, wretched hole in the ground, dug into the barren crust of a planet jammed so far up the ass of the Outer Cluster that supply freighters only made drop-offs twice a year.

‘The Pit’. That’s what most of the inmates had called it. And the warden, a twisted, mincing demonae by the name of Alastair, hadn’t done much to dissuade them from the nickname. Probably _liked_ it, the sick son of a bitch. Encouraged the terrified, hushed spread of the whispers with almost as much gusto as he reserved for the _‘treatment’_. Psycho-cognitive Rehabilitation Therapy.

Just the distant memory of it makes Dean’s balls feel like crawling up into his stomach. Psy-cog was an experimental procedure invented to foster the reintegration of criminals into polite society, even though anyone with half a brain could tell that it had been thought up by some sadistic quack with a forged, recreation-planet diploma and a sloppy grasp on what constituted ‘organic rights’. But the byline showed a clear, statistical decrease in repeat offenders—and who could argue with math? Plus, none of the convicts were actually being harmed on any sort of physical level, so there was no danger of litigation. 

The basic premise was simple. All the prisoners were allowed (monitored) free reign of the prison for exactly fourteen hours a day. It was pretty much unlimited access to the yard or gym or library, whatever your poison happened to be, and Dean had spent the first several weeks of his sentence prowling around the maintenance shafts, unsuccessfully searching for a strategic weak point in the prison walls. But the guards always managed to scoop up every single inmate in time for lights out, to a man, without fail. And each night, they were strapped into the therapy beds, electrodes glued to any bare bit of skin, and put under for another solid twelve—chemically-induced REM cycles to allow the psy-cog to go to work on their defenseless psyches. 

It was torture, plain and simple. Images and impressions of pain, scalpels slicing through flesh, lasers searing down to bone, limbs being ripped and torn bloody. But none of it was real. He’d come to every morning, fully whole again, just so they could start in all over the next night. And despite the horrifying mental impact and lasting phantom aches, the worst of it all was _easily_ the fabricated time dilation. Each twelve hour session felt like sixty days or so in the waking world. By the time a calendar month had gone by…for Dean, it had been closer to ten years. But he couldn’t regret it. The whole reason he’d gone to Perdition was to protect Sam. Dean couldn’t regret a fucking bit of the psy-cog if it meant that his little brother didn’t have to experience a single second of it.

The really awful part was that to further the effect of the treatment, the prison only permitted them to have visitors once every four weeks. Every single time Dean had been allowed to catch a glimpse of his brother, hunched and broken on the other side of that partition, he’d soaked up the sight like sunshine—doing everything he could to commit every one of Sam’s features to memory, fighting tooth and nail against the unceasing, inevitable pull of time that slowly chipped away at the image of his brother’s face. Dean can’t even imagine what he’d looked like each visiting hour, pale and strung-out and wrecked—but somehow, impossibly, Sam had him beat by a mile every time. 

Each stall had a transparent force-field strung up between the tungsten walls, clearer than glass without muffling sound in the slightest, but you couldn’t touch the thing without getting a nasty fucking shock. Sam still has a few burn scars on the palm of his left hand from trying anyway. Most of the other prisoners’ loved ones had given up on them immediately, but Dean’s little brother had shown up, punctual as clockwork, every single time he’d been allowed. Looking more drawn and haggard each visit, but there. Always there. 

It wasn’t until Sam missed the fourth month completely that Dean knew he’d have to make his move.

He’d first found Cas in one of the electrical storage areas, stumbling across the damaged angel on one of his daily snoops through the maintenance tunnels. He’d slipped into the electrical room for a breather, watching the rhythmic drops of water fall from the pipes above onto the fraying floor cables, wires hissing and spitting whenever any moisture managed to make it past the rubber casing. At first, Dean hadn’t noticed anything amiss, letting the metronomic tapping and sputtering of the ancient equipment soothe his rattled nerves, but curiosity got the best of him when the rumpled bunch of tan material that he’d taken for an insulation blanket briefly flickered a phosphorescent blue. Closer inspection had revealed the defective synthetic, and since Cas had a rudimentary toolkit stashed away in one of his forearm panels, Dean had ended up tinkering with the droid every day as a way of dealing with the torture from the night before. He’d always liked machines, fixing faulty circuitry had always been the best kind of puzzle, and the repetitive task of soldering tiny bits of wire together was surprisingly calming—allowing Dean’s attention to drift, letting his mind try to heal itself as best it could. It wasn’t until Cas had booted up with a quizzical stare and an Enochian greeting that Dean had realized his rudimentary repairs were actually accomplishing something.

Cas hadn’t been able to remember a thing about being an angel other than his own name, so Dean had continued to tweak at his hardware until it was good enough for government work—or, _not_ government work as the case ironically happened to be. He’d visited Cas each spare chance he got, and by the time Dean needed to set his escape plan into motion, he was the most loyal bot a convict could dream of. In fact, Cas had been the one to get them out of that shithole, handling the overwhelming majority of the heavy lifting and dragging Dean’s sorry ass out of the Pit pretty much single-handedly. They clawed their way through Perdition and out into the freedom of outlaw space. Just the two of them, Dean and Castiel.

And Benny.

“You alright?” Sam asks softly. And Dean jumps as the reality of the situation comes slamming back into him. Fucking Pit memories keep creeping up on him at the worst possible moments.

“Yeah,” he responds after a minute, a little too gruff. “I’m fine.”

Sam hits him with one of his knowing looks, soft and sad, and a lock of hair breaks free from his long bangs to fall across his brow as he tilts his head. He’s fucking beautiful, and Dean has to stop himself from desperately clinging to his brother in the wake of the flashbacks. Sam skips his eyes over Dean’s face, but doesn’t say a word, sliding a supportive hand down over his back instead. Dean gives in to the brief moment of weakness and leans into Sam’s touch, his brother’s palm burning a searing brand into his skin through the thin material of his t-shirt.  

But he really shouldn’t be thinking about Sam’s gorgeous hands when there’s a highly dangerous government assassin twenty feet away from them, so he forcefully shakes his head to clear the temptation. And what the hell _is_ an angel doing skulking around the upper reaches anyway? Dean inches forward to catch a glimpse from around the rough limestone, then ducks back out of sight again. Odds are, he’ll be fine even if the android manages to spot him. Cas had scrambled the records on their way out of the clink, at no small expense to his own CPU, so Dean _should_ come up spotless under any synthetic analysis. As far as the rest of the digital world knows, Dean did his time like a good little felon­ _—_ give or take the extra six months he skipped out on—but he doesn’t want to take any chances in case Enoch somehow managed to back up the correct drive to the rest of their Replicant lackeys. Which means that waiting the bitch out is gonna be their best bet. Dean presses back against his brother’s chest and tries not to breathe too loudly.

Sam slowly leans forward to rest his face against the crown of Dean’s head, lips brushing across the short hair there. “How long you think?” he whispers.

“Until Roma Downey gets bored and skedaddles?”

Sam huffs out a quiet laugh against his scalp. “Yeah.”

Dean sighs and relaxes into Sam’s hold. “Who the fuck knows?”

The angel swivels her hawk-like gaze directly toward them and their muted conversation, and Sam seizes up behind him at the movement. He claws his fingers into Dean’s shoulders for one terrified nanosecond, then hastily wrenches him around and shoves him hard against the wall.

“ _Ow_ , Jesus—” Dean’s complaining is swiftly cut off by Sam _crushing_ their mouths together, going to town on his lips and bringing a hand up to curl against the gray limestone, conveniently blocking Dean’s face from view.  _Oh_. Okay, Dean can do this. Just two random dudes pawing at each other in public because they’re too drunk, or too impatient, to get a room. He slides a hand up under his brother’s vest and makes it look good, hitching their hips together with a firm grip on Sam’s ass. Sam grumbles a bit at the excessive fondling, but hey, they’re pretending to be sauced. Dean’s just trying to make it believable.

He takes advantage of the hesitation to slip his tongue past the younger man’s lips, and Sam breaks into a delicious little shiver at the wet slide, his fear-tense muscles gradually relaxing as Dean expertly works him over. He knows every single one of his brother’s kinks, and doesn’t give Sam a _second_ to catch his breath before he’s flipping through the switches like he’s trying to light up an entire power grid. He carefully maps out Sam’s lips with light, barely-there scrapes of his teeth and elaborate strokes of his tongue, gentle and _painstakingly_ thorough, palms sweeping over every inch of warm skin and firm curve of sinew until Sam can’t tell up from down from sideways. Dean throws in a trick he’d picked up from that thralla masseuse last week (that chick had been all hands, _literally_ ) and softly scrapes his fingernails down the defined cut of each hipbone. Because Sam likes to be fucking _cherished_.

His brother lets out a pained groan and sinks down into the assault, left hand desperately groping over Dean’s collar as he immediately starts giving as good as he’s getting. He jams himself forward, squashing Dean hard against the wall at his back, and then growls as he wrenches his hands down to clutch at his ass, yanking Dean up against his groin to brutally grind their hips together. Sam tears at his mouth with his teeth, then suddenly switches directions like a man possessed, slamming himself forward again until Dean thunks the back of his skull against the greystone and can’t tell if the stars he’s currently seeing are from the head trauma or just his brother’s perfect mauling. Sam drags his fingers up Dean’s spine, scrapes his teeth along the line of his jaw, and by the time Dean eventually remembers to come up for air, the angel is long gone.

He swallows a couple of times, panting for breath as his lips graze against Sam’s, who’s still lingering a little too close for mixed company. Judging by his brother’s heavy-eyed gaze, Dean might look just the slightest bit ravished. He _feels_ the slightest bit ravished.

Sam flinches back, maybe a little embarrassed about getting caught up in an impromptu make-out session with a killer robot only a few yards away—or, more likely, simply stressed and uptight with nothing he can do about it. So, he settles on an awkward, “You taste like curry,” before calmly turning on his heel and loping down the nearest staircase.

Dean blinks a few times at Sam’s retreating back, then glances down at the neglected carton at his feet. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he calls out after him.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Meg, the only (ex) cartel member not beholden to Crowley within a thirty light-year radius, spends most of her time as owner and operator of a moderately-sized leisure lounge—which is basically just an extremely polite way of saying ‘whorehouse with a liquor license’. Granted, it’s probably one of the more successful establishments on Spectra Minor, but that’s kind of like outrunning a vreech in a foot race. How proud of yourself can you really be when your competition doesn’t have a leg to stand on? That’d be literally in the vreech’s case, but very extremely figuratively when it comes to the scarcity of nightlife options on Minor. Of course, that all being said, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the resident priest-types preferred to blow off a little of their steam in some less-than-holy ways. A single golden plate could pay for a decent sampling from the à la carte menu here.

The entire lounge is dimly lit and decked out in cheap, fake leather—from the long couches to the barstools to the dark jacket Meg's currently got wrapped around her shoulders as she preps for the evening crowd. The neon backlighting of the shelves outlines her silhouette in a brilliant purple as she attacks the Lucite counter with what seems to be an entire jug of disinfectant, giving the whole scene an atmosphere of tasteless vulgarity. Which is Dean’s favorite kind of vulgarity when it comes to the sex trade, but they’re unfortunately on duty at the moment. 

Meg immediately lifts her head at the electronic melody of the door chime, probably surprised that someone is interested in soliciting a hooker this early in the day, then curls her lip up in distaste once she spots them. “Sorry, boys,” she drawls after a moment. “We don’t serve single-celled organisms until happy hour.”

“Meg,” Dean shoots back, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “Just the lady we wanted to see.” He turns back to quirk an eyebrow at his brother. “Though I dunno, Sammy. ‘Lady’ might be too strong of a word. What do you think?”

Sam doesn’t play along because he’s a big, giant stick in the mud. “We have some questions about your time in Hell under Lucifer,” he says, features so perfectly placid that it’s obvious he’s uncomfortable here. “Figured you’re the best one to ask.” He tilts his head, then adds, “Considering the circumstances and all.” 

Meg lobs her used towel into the wastebasket under the bar, then casually leans forward on her elbows. “Got out of the drug running business,” she says dryly. “What can I say? Too much running, not enough drugs.”

Dean scoffs and snatches up one of the cheapo drink umbrellas from the other end of the bar, twirling it between his fingers and falling into his ‘bad cop’ routine with a practiced ease. “Y’know, you don’t see too many demonae going straight these days.” 

“Charming,” she lilts sarcastically. “And racist. And it isn’t even noon yet.” Meg tosses her head with a reluctant sigh, sending her dark curls swinging. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks, painfully unenthusiastic. “Because unless you’re looking for some special company for the next hour or two, I’m not feeling particularly gossipy at the moment. Sorry to disappoint, but I get enough sad sacks moaning about their feelings every night without having to deal with the two of you.” Meg tosses them an insincere smile, scrunching up her nose. “No offense.”

“Lucifer’s gone, Meg,” Sam says coolly. “Life sentence. There’s absolutely no reason to protect him anymore.”

She cocks an eyebrow and lets out a skeptical huff of air. “That what you think this is?”

“Nah,” Dean adds, chucking the dented paper umbrella back onto the counter, “I’m sure there’s a billion other reasons for you to play ice queen.” He pointedly gives the empty room an intentional once-over. “Because you’ve clearly got _so_ much going for you right now.”

Meg narrows her eyes at them, any hint of levity evaporating into the stale, chemically-perfumed air. “And let me guess,” she says snidely. “You’re totally gonna make it worth my while?”

Sam shrugs nonchalantly. “Never know until you try.”

The demonae intently regards both of them for a solid minute, then leans back against the luminescent shelving with an over-exaggerated calm. “Where’s your angel, by the way?” she asks offhandedly.

Dean twitches and jerks forward to loom over the counter. “Say that a little _louder_ , why don’t you?” he spits under his breath. “I don’t think they heard you over in Zardox 5.”

Meg grins like she’s got the situation fully back in hand. “Figured Clarence would be just _itching_ to get off ship if you ever gave him half the chance.” She twists her lips into a moue of faux concern. “You’re not worried about his loyalties, right?” she prods. “Because I’m sure your little choir boy has just as big a crush on you. There’s absolutely no need to be jealous.”

Dean takes a moment to breathe, then twists his face into a decent attempt at a smile. “So, you’re rooting around for some one-on-one time with Cas?” he asks evenly. “Think we might be able to arrange that.” His brother lets out an undignified sound from behind him as Dean rests an arm against the bar. “You must be pretty hard up, huh? I mean, I’ve heard of some out there sex toys before, but this kinda takes ‘battery-operated’ to a whole new level.”

Sam yanks at the back of his jacket hard enough that he has to catch himself against the nearest barstool. “Give us a second,” he directs to Meg, tugging Dean far enough away that they can whisper without being overheard. “What the hell are you doing?” he hisses frantically.

“What?” Dean makes a face, shooing Sam away from his coat. “You’re the one who was all up in my grill about him having a dick.” 

“That doesn’t mean I think we should rent it _out_ ,” he says indignantly.

“Look,” Dean starts, “we want info, she wants a ride on the Soul Train. Seems like a win-win to me.”

Sam’s eyes bug out of his head. It makes him look like one of those squeezy stress toys. “Not for _Cas_ ,” he squawks.

“Oh, c’mon,” he says cajolingly. “Meg’s an attractive enough…” Dean trails off for a moment, waving a hand in the demonae’s general direction, “— _thing_.” Then he turns back to level a finger at his brother’s face. “Plus, it’s long past time for Cas to finally become a man.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Introduce him to some of the perks of the job. Y’know what I’m saying?”

“What?” Sam balks. “He’s an android, he doesn’t—” Dean just rolls his eyes and steps back over to the bar, leaving Sam sputtering behind him. “ _Dean_. Jesus Christ.”

“Alright,” Dean announces, once he’s back in Meg’s earshot. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Throw us a couple of Lucifer-related bones and you’ve got a twenty minute trip on the Cas Express.” He breaks off as he thinks his words over for a moment. “Actually, you better plan on fifteen,” he amends. “He’s new at this.”

Meg runs her tongue over her teeth as she considers the offer, then accepts with a quick nod and an annoying smirk. “You’re not worried about Clarence hitching himself up to another speeder?” she asks suggestively.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean chuckles patronizingly. “You ain’t half as tempting as you think you are.”

“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Meg purrs.

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh and cuts in between the both of them. “Questions, remember?” he snipes. “Any of that ringing a bell?”

Meg lets out a low laugh and goes back to cleaning the bar. “Go ahead and shoot,” she says. “But I’m not sure what makes you think I’d know anything about anything. After all, I’ve been out of the game for years.”

“Well, all of Lucifer’s main lieutenants scampered into hiding after the big raid.” Dean hunkers down on the closest barstool and meets her eyes. “Like sand rats,” he adds, not even trying to hold back his sneer. “Can’t seem to get ahold of any of _them_ , so I figured Azazel’s daughter would be the next best thing.”

“Sorry, Dean-o, but I have no idea where my father is.” Meg tilts her head condescendingly. “He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…”

“My heart is breaking for you,” Sam interrupts dryly. “We need to know if you know anything about Lucifer’s supplier.”

She doesn’t seem to be at all perturbed by the disruption, but her lips do curl into a rueful smile at the memories. “Lucifer didn’t tend to share much of the essential info with me. Too low on the totem pole.” Meg lets out a sardonic huff of air. “Guess I wasn’t his _type_.” She pops the ‘p’, eyes briefly flicking over to glance at Sam before turning back to the bar with an exaggerated nonchalance. “All I know is that the crates would show up, first of every month, without fail.”

Sam frowns. “Like, out of thin air?”

Meg fixes his brother with a long, dull stare. “Do I look like a wizard to you?” she asks sarcastically. “I didn’t say the crap appeared by magic. I’m just saying that Lucifer wasn’t the type to give up his trade secrets to your garden variety black-eye. Not the Chattiest of Cathys, but what did you expect? The guy ran a drug cartel.” Meg spreads her hands with an obvious attempt at finality, and then rolls her eyes at their identical looks of skepticism. At least, Dean thinks she does. It’s hard to tell through the gaze of bottomless black. “Look,” she explains further. “I did as I was ordered and I kept my mouth shut.  _Hence_ , I have no idea where he got his secret stash from. Sorry kiddos, but if that’s your question, then I guess you came out all this way for nothing.”

“Well that’s funny,” Dean growls. “’Cause you don’t sound sorry.”

“Oh, my mistake,” she coos facetiously. “Is this better?”

“Meg, you seriously expect us to believe that you had no idea where the drugs you were peddling actually came from?” Sam raises a cynical eyebrow. “That sounds pretty sloppy, even for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Meg says, scoffing incredulously. “Because you two are such experts on the matter? You don’t believe me? Fine. Wingus, you can go ahead and grab Dingus and get the hell out of my bar.” She tosses a hand toward the entrance. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or do. Either way works for me.” She gives them one last fake smile, then turns her attention back to cleaning.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam mutters, tugging at his arm. “We gave it our best shot.”

But Dean just waves his brother away in favor of leaning back over the bar. “Y’know, Meg,” he drawls slowly. “It really is a shame you can’t help us out.”

She sighs and pins him with a flat look. “Is it now?”

“Yeah.” He lets out an overdramatic sigh and scratches at the plastic counter with a fingernail. “I mean, I know how much it would fuck with Crowley if you gave away classified info like that.” She doesn’t say anything in response, but Dean can tell that he’s at least piqued her interest, if not outright hooked her. “Can’t imagine he’d be too pleased to find out you’ve been telling tales out of school.” He grins. “And that’s not even considering how much it would hurt his bottom line. But,” Dean shoves away from the counter, “you wouldn’t want to do anything that could ruin Crowley’s livelihood. So, I guess we’ll be on our way.” He taps his brother’s arm with the back of his hand. “C’mon, Dingus.”

Meg manages to hold out for an entire twenty-seven seconds before calling out after them. “Wait,” she grits out tightly, hand clenched into a fist on the countertop. They saunter back across the room, making sure to take their sweet time, until she’s able to muster up enough willpower to grace them with a smile. Or, at least, he assumes it’s _supposed_ to be a smile. “You might remember Crowley and me were frosty back in the day?” she prompts bitingly, and Dean ducks his head in acknowledgement. “Well, times haven’t changed,” Meg spits. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m gonna burn that smarmy dick. My time’s coming. But until then…” She shrugs coolly, a practiced motion. “Guess it can’t hurt to tell you the little I know.”

“And what would that be?” Sam asks, back at Dean’s shoulder.

She gives him a suggestive glance. “Lucifer may or may not have received a few mysterious calls while I was still on the inside. I may or may not have some insight into a few of those mysterious calls.” She tilts her head gracefully. “No way to know for sure. And if Lucifer ever comes back around, sniffing for info, then of course you didn’t hear anything from me.”

“Of course,” Dean replies flatly.

“Enoch,” Meg says, and Dean just shakes his head in further expectation. “ _Enterprises_ ,” she spells out for them after a moment of clear frustration. “I swear, it’s like you two were dropped on your heads” Meg mutters, then leans forward, lowering her voice to a winding whisper. “Every few months or so,” she begins smoothly, “Lucifer would get a private call.” She spares both of them a deliberate glance. “Always from the same number and the call would always last the exact same length of time. Now, the number was blocked, so scrolling through the vid screen log never revealed anything, _but_ —” she says, stretching out the vowel, “I know exactly who he was chatting with.”

Sam snorts under his breath. “And how could you possibly know that?”

“I hear things,” she tosses back. “The doors were thin. And the walls. Not to mention the self-control of the other dealers.” Her lips stretch into an ambiguous smile. “Not a trustworthy bunch, demonae.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dean can’t help but add.

Meg lifts her eyebrows at him. “Keep sweet talking me, this could go a whole new direction,” she purrs viciously.

“Who was it?” Sam asks. “The person Lucifer was talking to.”

Meg blinks at him blankly. “I just told you,” she says. “ _Enoch_. It was Michael fucking Shurley. Every single time. Swear to—” she cuts herself off. “Well. I swear, anyway.”

“You think _Shurley_ was Hell’s supplier?” Sam asks skeptically.

“I think Shurley was Lucifer’s _something_ ,” Meg shoots back. “Can’t say as to what. That’s all I know.”

Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. “And you’re letting us in on all of this potentially planet-shattering info for just seven minutes in Heaven?”

She lets out a sinful chuckle. “Baby, I’ve done a lot more for a lot less.”

“Thought you were more loyal than that,” Sam says offhand.

Meg’s black eyes _flash_ as she spins to glare at his brother. “I _am_ loyal to Lucifer,” she snaps venomously. “And don’t you sniveling sacks of meat ever forget it. I’m doing what I’m doing _out_ of that loyalty, out of that _love_.” She swallows hard and takes a moment to wrestle her anger under control. “Weakening Crowley’s hold on Hell is the most important step to bringing Lucifer back where he belongs,” she says coolly, then straightens back upright again. “Clarence is definitely a nice bonus though. So, thanks for that.”

Sam is stiff as a board beside him, and Dean doesn’t so much _see_ the slight trembling as hear it in his brother’s voice. “Lucifer is never coming back,” he grits out from between his clenched teeth. “He’s going to rot in prison for the rest of his natural life.”

Meg shrugs and meets his withering gaze without flinching. “Guess we’ll see,” she says evenly.

Dean wraps a firm hand around Sam’s arm and shoves him toward the front door. “Alright, we’re done here,” he says grimly.

“Tell your angel I said ‘hi’,” Meg coos after them, and Dean has to take a deep breath in order to stop himself from digging his fingernails into his brother’s skin.

They burst out into the brisk morning air and Dean lets the distant cawing of the cliff gulls, a holdover from Spectra Minor’s initial terraforming program, slowly bring him back to stable. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” Sam mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t pull away from Dean’s hold. Dean shifts against the recycled foam rubber under his boots and keeps his hand where it is, rubbing his thumb in little circles until Sam eventually speaks again. “Playing two high-level demonae against each other,” he says with a weak smile. “Kinda reckless, don’t you think?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Dean uses the grip he’s still got on Sam’s arm to tug him toward a vendor cart on the other side of the walkway, ordering a batch of the steamed dumplings and practically shoving the paper carton into his brother’s hands. He scans over the required amount of chits, then turns back to Sam. “You think we should call the twins in on this?”

Sam scrubs at his forehead with one hand and follows Dean over to one of the nearby algae towers so that they can speak in peace. “I guess that makes sense,” he sighs, then glances down at him in worry. “You really think this goes all the way up to Enoch? I mean that’s _insane_ , right? Maybe Meg is wrong.”

Dean shrugs and sneaks one of his brother’s dumplings. He isn’t particularly fond of the soggy texture, but Sam seems to like them. “I know the best way to find out,” he offers around the steamed dough. “If anything _is_ going on, the twins are gonna be the ones to help us suss it out. And if not, then we’ll figure that out too.”

Sam nods, then blinks at his hands like he’s just realized that Dean has procured him breakfast. He lets out a preoccupied hum as he starts in on his street food. “Yeah, alright.”

The Wonder Twins, aka Charlie Bradbury and Kevin Tran, are the closest things he and Sam have to a tech team. Even though their self-designated ‘twins’ angle is actually complete horseshit. They couldn’t be less alike if they tried, considering the fact that one is a peppy, red-headed lesbian with an obsessive love for late 20th century pop culture, and the other is a moody, Vietnamese wunderkind. Yet, they’re still two of the most skilled hackers that Dean’s ever met. 

They’d first run across each other when Kevin had physically bumped into Sam on the street during a job. They’d been struggling to track down an unwarrantedly pricey bounty at the time and Dean had immediately suspected that the kid was trying to pick-pocket them, but after a quick pat-down to confirm nothing was missing, they’d gone on their way. It wasn’t until later that they’d realized he’d actually stuck a wireless bug to the inside of Sam’s vest, giving Charlie the opening she’d needed to hack into Sam’s cybernetics and find their bounty for them. Some sort of vigilante justice thing—pretty impressive for a couple of white hats. He and Sam had offered the two a share of the take once they’d caught up to the guy, but the twins had flat-out refused any monetary reward (apparently mad hacking skills rendered a need for chits pretty irrelevant). Dean had been instantly taken in by their endearingly altruistic do-goodery, and had decided to keep them. It’s worked out pretty well for everyone so far.

He taps his cybernetics on and shoots a message over to Charlie’s most recent address, letting Sam lean lightly against his shoulder as they both watch the small holographic screen. Luckily, Charlie is almost always at her terminal, and a bright yellow text bubble pops up only a few seconds later.

****JAYNA @send_message: _what’s the password?_**

“I am not playing this game with you, Charlie,” Dean grumbles, watching as the dictation software sends his words back as text. “You know damn well who it is. Sammy and I need your help.”

****JAYNA @send_message: _if you don’t give me the password, then i can’t let you in. safety first ;)_**

“Yes, you absolutely can,” Dean responds, eye twitching at the winky face. “You just _do_ it. It’s not hard.”

****ZAN @send_message: _seriously, dean, just play along. she’s not gonna stop until you do._**

****JAYNA @send_message: _we don’t know that it’s dean. it could be absolutely anyone who managed to get ahold of his ip address. that’s what passwords are for, young padawan._**

****ZAN @send_message: _you think someone nabbed dean winchester’s cybernetics ip? how? by ripping his head off?_**

****JAYNA @send_message: _first lesson of hacking: there is always someone out there more skilled than you. an overconfident hacker is an obsolete hacker. <3_**

****ZAN @send_message: _i don’t need any *lessons*, charlie. i’ve been doing this just as long as you have. why are we even typing right now? i’m three feet away fro_**

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sam sighs over his shoulder. “ _Swordfish_.”

The pop-up screen blanks white for a moment, then apertures open to reveal a grainy view of the twins’ apartment via Charlie’s desktop webcam. The image is dark enough that it’s probably pretty late at night over there.

“—and not to mention,” Kevin is exhaustedly scolding from his spot at the kitchenette counter, “that you leave your little superhero toys all over the whole friggin’ apartment.”

“Her name is Wonder Woman and she’s a _collectible_ ,” Charlie explains. “Themyscira would be ashamed of you.”

“Charlie,” Sam interrupts through the video chat screen.

She straightens at the sound of her name, then zips back to her desktop terminal. “Hey, guys,” she says brightly, ducking into the camera’s view. “What’s shaking?” She’s wearing a ratty, old t-shirt with a vintage cereal logo splashed across the front. A moxon with a spoon in one of its four mouths cheerfully informs him that _Rainbow Frosted Nebuloids_ are “Galactically Delicious”.

“Not too much,” Dean responds, overly casual. “Just maybe an end to the entire universe as we know it.”

Charlie pops the webcam off of her terminal and clicks it into place on a nearby hoverbot, letting it follow her as she heads back to the kitchenette. “That sounds ominous,” she tosses over her shoulder. “You piss off the wrong enforcer?”

“That, or Dean’s just being overdramatic because they canceled his porn subscription again and he needs us to hook it back up for him,” Kevin adds from off-camera. The hoverbot immediately zooms out to keep him frame, zeroing in on any speech it picks up.

“Ha ha,” Dean monotones dryly. “No, really. You two are hilarious.”

“We need a way into Enoch Enterprises,” Sam says, firmly guiding them back to the topic at hand, but still clearly way too amused by Dean’s suffering.

Charlie and Kevin just stare at them for a few moments, blinking in identical shock. Huh, they actually do kinda look like twins when they gape dumbly like that.

“Holy shnikies,” Charlie says eventually. “When you guys ask for a favor, you really don’t mess around.”

Kevin runs a hand through his lank hair, then winces at the feel of it. Judging from the shine, and the deep bags under his eyes, he’s been awake for far longer than is probably healthy. “Why?” he asks frankly. “Enoch is _high_ government. That seems pretty heavy for you guys to be involved with. You trying to dodge your taxes or something?”

Sam glances over at him in silent question, and Dean worries at his lip before answering. “We think Enoch might be behind Croatoan,” he admits furtively, glancing around for eavesdroppers. “We’ve got a source who thinks Michael Shurley may have been supplying drugs for some of the cartels.”

Charlie lets out a disbelieving snort. “Dude, Enoch is a boring governance planet, not the Umbrella Corporation. You really think they’re sneaking the freaking _T-virus_ into covert shipments of drugs?”

“Could be accidental,” Sam adds calmly. “We just need to do some looking around. See if we can’t nip this whole Croatoan thing in the bud.”

“And you need us to forge you guys a cover?” Kevin asks.

“Give the man a medal,” Dean shoots back good-naturedly.

Charlie hums to herself as she walks back over to type at her terminal. “So you two are seriously taking on this whole Croatoan thing by yourselves?” she asks from her desk. “Just for the good of the universe? I gotta say, that’s pretty noble of you.”

“Aim lower,” Sam snarks from beside him, popping the last of his dumplings into his mouth.

“Rampant croats mean messy bounties. Messy bounties mean no chits. No chits means grumpy Dean,” Kevin explains dryly.

Dean spreads his hands and shrugs. “What can I say? The kid’s got me pegged.”

Charlie pouts adorably at the let-down. “You guys would be the worst knights ever.”

“I dunno,” Dean muses. “I think Sammy might feel more at home in a princess dress.”

“Fuck you too, Dean,” his brother says exasperatedly.

Charlie taps at the side of her monitor as it loads, then grins brightly. “Okay,” she chirps. “I’ll set you guys up as auditors under the inspector general. Department of Universal Security.” She bites at her lower lip as she taps away at her keyboard. “I can write the proper security passcodes into your cybernetics, but I’ll need to hack you into Enoch’s mainframe first. Give me a sec.”

Dean flinches back a bit as the lines of colored code begin to sweep over his display.

 

**[DEEPSCAN] READY.**

**> DROP ANY VALUE ON THE ACTIVATION MATRIX TO START:**

 

Sam chuckles at Dean’s reaction, then focuses on Kevin. “Hey, man,” he starts warmly. “So, when’s the last time you actually slept?”

“Uh, not sure exactly,” Kevin says blearily, jerking his head back up from where he was starting to nod off. “We’ve been trying to hack into an independent-expenditure Super PAC for the past couple weeks. With like no success at all. The code practically rewrites itself every single time you take a break, so we’ve been switching off.” He scrubs a hand down his face and yawns widely. “I had last shift.”

 

**LOGON: error. access denied**

**OVERRIDE <<DESIRED PASSWORD**

**[IN >>01**

**OVERRIDE <<CONFIRM YOUR PASSWORD**

**[IN >>02**

**[STRCMP(01,02) ZERO NUMBER /**

**IF(CO)**

**OVERRIDE <<CONFIRMED.<<END**

**IF(C/O)**

**>**  

**GOTO CRE**

**>**  

 

**/ LOCK OUT /**

 

Charlie curses under her breath as the bright red refusal blinks a few times across Dean’s view screen. “You alright there, kiddo?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Charlie grumbles. “Looks like Enoch’s gonna be a tougher nut to crack than I thought.” She rolls her neck a few times, then attacks her terminal again. “It’s like friggin’ Butcher Bay in here.”

 

**RUN FIREWALL[ATTACK]_full assault*@@@-MINE.ALL.FILES@@@ [execute priority] ALPHA]]**

 

Dean lets out an amused breath at Charlie’s undying perseverance, then glances past the lines of text to turn his attention back to Kevin, who is slowly but surely drooping over his kitchen chair. “You look like you’re about to keel over, Kev,” he points out. “Why don’t you hit the hay?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Kevin mumbles. “Just gonna grab a snack or something. It’s probably just low blood sugar.”

Sam snorts under his breath. “I think it’s probably the fact that you haven’t slept in three days, man.”

Kevin drags himself up, shoving a handful of plastic wrappers away as he scrounges around for dinner, and Dean frowns at the multiple ramen packets littering the countertop. “You returning to your roots?” he asks sarcastically.

The kid yawns again and pulls a raw hot dog from the fridge. “Those are Charlie’s. She’s on some freaky anime kick right now. Hasn’t eaten anything other than noodles for days.” He takes a bite, then scowls around a mouthful of ground-up mush. “And by the way, ramen is _Japanese_ , you dick.”

 

**SCANNING HARDRIVE – 2] ZAYNA-WORM .EXECUTE**

****COM**_1**

**HACK > PRIVATE/SECURITY/ENOCH_2379.EXE**

 

Charlie lets out a little, self-congratulatory whoop as she finally cracks the system. “Alright,” she cheers. “You guys are all set. Your retinal scans will now totally back up the whole government inspection angle.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Sam calls out through the screen.

“No problem, guys.”

Dean gives her a smile of gratitude as well, then turns back to Kevin. “And you might wanna think about stepping into a refresher, Kev. Seriously.”

“ _Bye_ ,” Kevin responds very pointedly.

Charlie laughs and throws them a wink. “See you later, space cowboys,” she says, and then the screen irises out to black.

Sam chuckles a little at the send-off, then moves away to toss his empty carton into a trash receptacle. Dean listens half-heartedly as the disposal immediately starts up, whirring the paper into mulch. He hates this place. It’s too clean—like New Amsterdam, but without any of the sordid fun.

“Suits?” Sam asks him tiredly.

And suddenly, Dean's mood is lifted as he fights back an automatic grin, making sure to cover his internal spike of excitement with a feigned reluctance. “Yeah,” he says, intentionally unenthusiastic. “Think we’re probably gonna _have_ to go shopping. Our current threads are way too shabby for us to be believable as feds.”

Sam narrows his eyes a little suspiciously, but nods all the same. “ _Right_ ,” he says slowly. “For the job.”

“Exactly, Sammy.” Dean grins and punches lightly at his brother’s chest. “Exactly.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Dean’s suit is tailored so tight that he’s surprised he can breathe without tearing the seams. The solid black lapels contrast starkly against the pale gray of the rest of the jacket, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if his own reflection jumped him right now, given the dapper figure he’s currently cutting. He gives himself one final look-over in the mirror, then tugs at his sharp collar as he spins around. “Whaddya think? Pretty flash, right?”

“You look like a game show host,” his brother says dryly.

“I look _good_.”

Sam rolls his eyes in fond exasperation, but Dean can see the way they linger over his crotch on the way down.  _Interesting_. Maybe they’ll be able to get a little more use out of these than just undercover work. Dean’s lips tug into a shameless grin at the thought. His brother’s suit is a little more subtle, all one color, but with the same slim cut—the navy fabric stretching almost sinfully across the breadth of his shoulders before drastically nipping in at the waist—and Dean kind of wants to peel him out of it already.

He allows himself a playful, open-handed smack to Sam’s ass as he passes by, stepping off the dais to charge the suit to their account. The nanobots take a few seconds to finish altering the material around him, then whizz back to their charging base under the dressing platform.

“So, do we even have a plan here?” Sam asks, kicking the mini changing station back into the storage closet and waiting until the door slides fully closed. “Or are we just gonna wing it and hope for the best?”

“We’re gonna flash our metaphorical badges and order the worker bees to give us a wide berth while we snoop.” Dean strides over to glance at the autopilot, dress shoes clicking against the ship’s flooring with every step, and double-checks the estimated arrival time. “I’ve got my cybernetics set to scan for any _hint_ of infectious agents,” he says reassuringly, then taps at his temple. “This baby’s gonna be able to pick up Johnny Corner-Cubicle’s HPV. If there’s Croatoan anywhere in the building, I’ll find it.”

“And if they don’t obey?” Cas pipes up from where he’s leaning against the interior wall. “The worker bees, that is.”

“They’re gonna be tripping over themselves to do whatever we ask, Cas,” Dean says. “Office drones are terrified of Big Brother. Especially if they think we have sway over their wages.” He flips the landing gear on and hovers Baby over an open port space. “You just keep her docked right here, okay, buddy? We’ll be back in a jiff.”

Sam places a concerned hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Remember, Cas, this is Enochian territory. If anyone other than us tries to board, you hide yourself anywhere you can.”

“I understand, Sam,” Cas nods, “but Dean has expressed the clear sentiment that there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Dean chuckles as he moves back over to his brother’s side, and Sam pins him with a look. “You know that’s practically a death sentence, right? He may as well have said, ‘What could possibly go wrong?’.”

“It’ll be fine, Sammy.” He places a hand to Sam’s back and walks him across the room. “Keep the engine warm, Cas,” he calls over his shoulder, keeping one hand on his brother until they step past the loading bay and out onto Enochian soil.

Sam tugs at his tie for one restless moment, then sighs as he makes his way up the main path toward Enoch Enterprises. The entire planet serves as a base for the corporation (kind of like the recent worldwide syndication of Disneyland), and every road in sight seems to lead to Rome. Or, as the case may be, Enoch’s main headquarters—a towering castle of a building, each adjoining skyscraper a small but necessary part of the entire angel-assembling process. Dean puts on a burst of speed and manages to catch up to his brother after a few silent minutes, taking point as they cross over the threshold of Enoch’s ground floor lobby.

An angel in a dark suit greets them on the way in, probably surprised by the unexpected company. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asks, a coolly polite smile gracing his features.

“I absolutely hope so,” Dean bites out, looking down his nose at the synthetic with affected indifference. “We’re from the Department of Universal Security. There’s been word of a security breach and we’ll need your full cooperation during our inspection.”

“Oh, of course,” the android says cordially. “The auditors. We’ve been expecting you.”

“You…have?” Sam asks, tense and suspicious.

“Why yes, Sam,” he says slowly. “We have.”

Dean latches a nervous hand onto his brother’s jacket. “Actually, you know what?” he stammers. “Looks like we’ve made a mistake here.” He shoots the angel a tight smile and backs away slowly. “No need to get up, we’ll see ourselves out. Our bad.”

The angel grins sharply. “I don’t think so, Dean. After all, it would be so rude to keep Mr. Shurley waiting.” The entrance suddenly slams shut behind them, steel shutters locking into place along each opening until every bit of natural light is blocked out. The dim flickering of the interior lamps violently undercuts the mild-mannered harmlessness that the robot’s balding appearance is clearly going for.

Dean swallows hard and presses closer in to his brother’s side. “Y’know,” he tries weakly, “we don’t even have an appointment. Probably be better for everybody if we come back when we’re on the books. Wouldn’t want to cause the big man upstairs any stress.”

“Oh, I think he’ll very much want to see the both of you,” the synthetic says sharply. Two more figures, one man and one woman, emerge from the shadows at the back of the room, stepping up beside him and Sam and locking machine-tight fingers around their upper arms. “He’s going to be so pleased you two decided to stop by,” the balding man says again, then turns on his heel and leads the way into the winding entrails of the building.

They’re frog marched up several sets of stairs, Dean doing his absolute best to ignore the devastatingly icy glare his brother is trying to silently bore into his skull, until they’re both shoved into a spacious, opulent office. Dean stumbles over a dip in the carpet, and Sam manages to steady him for all of two seconds before the two henchman droids are back, wrestling Sam off of him and over to the far corner of the room.

“Stop it!” Dean shouts, struggling against the first angel’s unrelenting strength. “Get the fuck off of him!”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses back, probably in warning, then grunts and doubles over as his male escort socks him hard in the stomach.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Dean yanks fiercely away from his guard’s grip and gets a vicious punch to the kidneys of his very own for his trouble. He sucks in a shaky, excruciating breath and gives in, sagging against the angel’s hold until he can finally speak again. “I’m sorry,” Dean grits out from where he’s bent over his knees, frantically searching out his brother’s gaze across the room. Sam meets his stare with nothing but pure understanding, and Dean feels like puking from something that has nothing to do with the recent blow to his gut. “Should’ve left it alone, Sammy,” he pants. “Just like you said.”

His brother’s eyes start to water, and for a second, Dean thinks he’s gonna say something sappy and unnecessary, but Sam just lets out a pained laugh and hangs his head between his shoulders. “You saying that just ‘cause you’re the oldest, it doesn’t make you always right?” he asks teasingly.

Dean sucks in another trembling breath and closes his eyes against Sam’s unconditional forgiveness. Somehow, _impossibly_ , his brother doesn’t blame him for any of this. Even after everything. Even if this is the end of the final track on the B-side. “Yeah, Sammy,” he scoffs bitterly. “I’m a damn _idiot_ , is what I am.” 

He drags his eyelids back open to look his last fill before their terrifying, government-sanctioned execution, but is distracted by the sudden click of the office lock. There’s a shuffle of footsteps, and then Michael _freaking_ Shurley steps smoothly into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him and padding over the lush carpeting. He comes to a stop right in front of the room’s large desk and scans his gaze over the scene before him.

“Dean Winchester,” he says plainly, crossing his legs at the ankle and leaning against the solid mahogany at his back. “And _Sam_ ,” he continues after a slight hesitation, his tone just the barest shade more stilted than before. “Well, I’d say this conversation is long overdue, wouldn’t you?”

Everyone knows that Michael Shurley took over from his reclusive predecessor years ago, but the guy’s been running things for so long (and so visibly) that he’s essentially become synonymous with Enoch Enterprises itself. Dean can’t even remember what the original CEO’s name was. Shurley graces them with a threatening smile, clear eyes flashing under his dark brows. Up this close, he looks weirdly familiar. Dean must have caught him on a vid once or something.

He adjusts his sleek, black suit, then pushes away from his desk. “I assume you have a few questions for me?” he asks warmly, tossing Dean an affectionate look. “Something that rhymes with ‘Shmoatoan’?”

“You’ve been supplying the cartels,” Sam bites out from the other side of the room.

Shurley stiffens abruptly and clenches his fists at his sides. “I wasn’t talking to you, Sam,” he says, low and cold. Then he takes a slow breath and manages to collect himself. “But, _no_ ,” Shurley chuckles. “I haven’t been supplying any of the _cartels_.” He spits the word out like it’s sour on his tongue. “I have, however, been adding a little spice to their recipe.” The man grins, and Dean’s reminded of a snake with teeth.

“You’ve been spiking the punch,” Dean says grimly. “And the cartel kings don’t even know.”

“Demonae aren’t the brightest bunch,” Shurley whispers affably, like he’s letting him in on the latest gossip. “Doesn’t take much to pull the proverbial wool over their eyes.” He lets out another low chuckle. “In fact, they’re usually so dark, I’m not sure how they even see through them in the first place.”

“But your plan is…  It's  _stupid_ ,” Dean says, grasping at straws as he tries to run through the logic in his own head. “A slow outbreak like that will take fucking forever to infect everyone. What’s even the point? You got something against druggies?”

Shurley grants him an enigmatic smile. “The intricacies of the universe are more complicated than you can wrap a single mind around. There’s no need to exert yourself.”

“Why?” Sam asks bluntly. He’s been quiet, maybe disheartened by Shurley’s earlier snub, and the simple question takes Dean by surprise. Sam brings his head up to glare at Shurley. “Why taint the well water?”

The dark-haired man grins and steeples his fingers. “Do you know what the absolute worst thing in the universe is?” he asks—prodding gently, like he’s a professor giving a lesson.

“Herpes?” Dean snarks.

“ _Chaos_ ,” Shurley replies darkly. “Every messy, frantic little maggot that infests the colonized galaxies all around us. Every organic that attacks or murders his fellow man out of anger. Out of passion. The rampant, violent excess of emotion.” He shuts his eyes to calm himself down, then runs a hand through his hair. “But synthetics,” he continues evenly, sweeping an arm out to gesture at their current bodyguards. “Synthetics are perfect. Flawless, constructed beings of pure logic. There’s no surprise, no frenzied savagery. Every single decision can be calculated and weighed and measured.” Shurley sighs like the very thought is soothing. “And by introducing an unexpected agent into the organic ecosystem, we can _correct_ this messy anomaly. Cull the herd, so to speak.”

“That _anomaly_ you’re referring to is all life as we know it,” Sam snarls. “There won’t be anything _left_ after you’re done.”

Shurley spares Sam a patronizing look. “Why, of course there will,” he says. “An entire universe of synthetic life. Not just the angels, but all other machines too. Paradise on every planet. It will be… _Heaven_.”

Dean has to stop himself from laughing out loud. He really shouldn’t be surprised that it always comes down to fanatical belief systems in the end. He is a little shocked by the archaic mythology though. Mormonism is the main go-to nowadays—most of the fringe religions, like Christianity or the Church of Beyoncé wackos, petered out years ago. 

“Seriously?” he spits sarcastically. “That’s the endgame? The angels want to construct themselves their very own Heaven?” Dean twists around until he can glare at the droid holding him. “You guys might want to read your Bible again. Think you’ve got it backwards.” Then he turns back to Shurley. “And as for _you_ —” he shakes his head. “Whaddya think, Sammy? Bit of an inferiority complex?”

“He should really work on that,” Sam says flatly.

“Okay, the robots I get, sure,” Dean says condescendingly. “But you’re gonna be dead _ages_ before your little scheme comes to fruition. And why would you even want to live in a universe where you’re the _only_ organic?”

Shurley gives him another one of those mysterious smiles and spreads his hands. “I can’t expect a man like you to understand the complexities of faith. But what I _can_ do,” he says, walking around his desk to root through the closest drawer, “is show you.” He pulls out a small vial of blue liquid, the indigo color softly catching the artificial light. “It’s Gyrocaine,” Shurley explains, once he sees their matching looks of wary suspicion. “A lovely release if you’re looking to escape for a few hours,” he muses, tilting the hypo back and forth. “Laced with Croatoan, of course. A little something we mixed up in R &D.”

Dean swallows hard, his eyes nervously tracking every move as Michael Shurley slowly makes his way around the desk. “Hey!” he calls out, desperately trying to wrest attention away from Sam. “You feel like sticking that in someone, I’m right over here.” He yanks against his angel’s hold, letting the synthetic’s grip rip the seams of his new suit. “C’mon, fucker,” he spits. “I’ve got some primo organic violence, just waiting for you. Come and get it!”

“Dean,” Shurley says indulgently, as if he’s a particularly dim child. “I think everyone in this room can tell that that’s not the way this is going to go down.” He gives him one last smile, and then steps over to his brother.

“No,” Dean snaps out, utterly horrified. “ _No!”_

Sam’s breathing gets panicked, shallow pants heaving against his lapels. “Shurley, come on,” he coaxes. “This is insane.” Shurley just tosses him a casual shrug before reaching up to yank the slim tie from his neck. Sam gasps a little until the strip of fabric slips free, then jerks back with a cry as Shurley rips the rest of his shirt collar open with a surprising ease.

Dean lunges again as his brother’s buttons hit the floor. “Don’t you _dare_ touch him, you motherfucker!”

“Look, you don’t have to do this,” Sam says, frantically trying to get through to the man. “It isn’t too late to fix what you’ve done.” Dean can see his brother’s pulse pounding at the base of his neck, his arms straining against the angels’ hold. “You can stop all of this right now!” Sam quiets down to a whimper as Shurley presses in closer. “Don’t,” he whispers desperately, breath hitching. “Please, don’t do this.  _Please_.”

Time narrows down to a single point, and Dean can see everything happen at once. He can see a single bead of sweat slowly slide down to catch in the tanned hollow of Sam’s throat. He can see Shurley clench his fingers around a fistful of his brother’s hair, pulling his head to the side to bare his neck for the site of the injection. And he can see the man jam the vial up under Sam’s jaw, the needle punching forward the instant that glass touches skin, blood beading up around the puncture wound as the hypo relentlessly pumps the horrific poison into his brother’s bloodstream. Then everything speeds back up with a pressurized hiss, and Dean fucking loses it.

“ _No!”_ he roars, out of his mind with anger and terror and desperation as he throws himself, again and again, against the angel’s grip on his arms. And then suddenly, he’s free, tripping over himself at the abrupt release and sprawling across the expensive carpet in a heap. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that it’s already too late and that it’s completely hopeless and that the only way the angel would ever release him is if there’s nothing he can do. Sam drops like his strings have been cut the instant the other synthetics remove their hands, and Dean scrambles across the room just in time to catch his brother’s body—the Gyrocaine working through his system so much faster than the deadly infection now tainting his veins. “No, no, _nonono_ ,” he chants miserably, sweeping his hands over every bit of his brother he can reach. “Oh god, this is all my fault.” Sam groans at his words and lets his face fall against Dean’s shoulder, his neck not able to support the weight of his head through his drugged haze. “I’ve got you,” Dean croaks into his brother’s hair, fingernails digging ruthlessly into his palms as he blinks away tears. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise. It’ll all be okay.”

Sam lets out a broken moan that sounds sickeningly like an apology, and Dean tightens his arms around his brother’s back so he doesn’t have to hear it, pressing a brutal kiss to the top of his head.

“Let’s see, what do you boys use? Earth time?” Shurley’s voice jarringly shatters the moment into a million little pieces. Dean had forgot he was even there. “11pm, on the dot. Would you look at that?” He strolls back over to lean against his desk again, casual as can be. “You’ll have 48 hours before the virus hits. So you’ll want to use your remaining time wisely. I’ve heard that Tropicalis is nice as far as bucket lists go.”

“You—you’re just gonna let us go?” Dean asks, voice blistered and raw.

“Well, I just replaced the rug in here. We wouldn’t want Sam hemorrhaging all over it.” His brother lets out another quiet sob, fingers clenching as he tries to speak, and Dean swallows down bile. “Zachariah,” Shurley calmly directs at the balding angel. “Could you please escort these gentlemen out of the building? They’ll need some time to get their affairs in order.”

Zachariah effortlessly tugs Dean up to his feet, but he refuses to take his hands off of his brother—snarling at any offered help and shouldering Sam’s practically dead weight with each clumsy, stuttering step of the way back out of Enoch’s headquarters.

Dean carries his brother all the way back to the docks, steadfastly ignoring every single torturous, whimpered attempt at an apology. Sam grits his teeth and fights back a waterfall of angry sobs the entire way home—each shudder hitting Dean like a poisonous, stinging dart—but he carries his brother’s weight. A few tears slip free to wet the dust under their loafers, but Dean soldiers on like there's no other choice. Because there isn't any other choice. Dean carries Sam all the way back to their ship.

He doesn’t falter once.

 


	3. Keep Your Electric Eye on Me

“Oh my god, why are we even _arguing_ about this?” Sam shouts, doing his best to ignore the pounding in his head—a nice little parting gift from his unexpected drugging. “It’s the only option!” He turns to fix Cas with a somber look and lowers his voice to an appropriate indoor level for the first time in the almost two hours that he’s been having this ineffectual screaming match with his brother. The first hour, unfortunately, was mostly just him drooling on the couch as the Gyrocaine slowly worked its way out of his system. “You have to kill me,” Sam says bleakly. “That’s a direct command.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Dean snaps. “Belay that order!” He gets a hand around the collar of Cas’s trench and yanks him up to growl in his face. “You want a direct command?” Dean asks rhetorically. “No harm comes to Sam. From you, or anyone else. _Got it?”_  He holds the glare for a moment, making sure that his words have landed, then drops Cas back on his heels and goes back to his ridiculous quest of locking away every sharp object within reach. “Priority command override or whatever,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Dean,” Sam spits. “Stop fucking cheating!” He grabs at Cas again, spinning him around until they’re face-to-face. “Cas, _please_ ,” he begs.

The android meets Sam’s pleading gaze with a resolute on of his own, and it’s a little unnerving how something as natural as dizziness doesn’t affect him in the slightest. “I apologize, Sam,” Cas says evenly, “but I am unable.” He waves a hand in Dean’s general direction in lieu of an explanation.

“What the hell, Cas?” Sam sighs, finally stretched past the point of polite discretion. “Seriously, though. What is it? You just like him better than me or something?”

Cas shifts a little uncomfortably, his eyes flicking around the room. “Well,” he grudgingly admits, “Dean and I do share a more profound bond…”

“ _Ha_ ,” Dean barks from where he’s bent over the coffee table, collecting stray pieces of silverware. “Good robot.”

Cas tosses him a guilty look. “I wasn’t gonna mention it.”

Sam lets his hands slip from the angel's jacket to fall against his own sides, exhausted. “Dean,” he says miserably. “You _know_ we have to do this. We don’t have a choice, man.” He takes a moment to steel his nerves, then raises his head in solemn determination. “I’ll do it myself if you won’t.”

“Oh,” Dean coos nastily, “ _will_ you now?” He strides back across the room and snakes a lightning-fast hand around Sam’s waist, yanking his blaster out of his slacks. “Is that what you’re gonna do, Sam?” Dean sets the thumbprint-lock on the safety with a blistering efficiency and flings the gun across the room before Sam can even think to make a grab for it. Then he pulls his own out and quickly repeats the process. Sam sighs at his brother’s stubbornness and only expends enough energy to glare. There’s nothing he can do now. The laser charges won’t go off unless the hands wrapped around either grip are Dean’s—or until he releases the locks himself.

“ _Dean_ —” he starts.

“You gonna nuke your brains? _Huh?_  That your plan, Sammy? You just gonna give up before you’ve even goddamn _started?”_  Dean takes a tense second to pull himself together, and then gently steps forward to smooth the kinks out of Sam’s rumpled lapels. “Look, we’ve got time.”

“We have two days, Dean!  _Two_.” Sam shoves his brother’s hands off of him. “You gonna come up with some magical solution when the fucking _real-life_ scientists have been stumped for months?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” he growls through his teeth, low and threatening.

“So, what is this genius plan of _yours_ then?” Sam asks caustically.

“Oh, you actually wanna know my _plan_ , huh?” Dean throws back with an equally acidic sneer. Then, with absolutely no warning at all, he suddenly decks him hard—straight out of left field, no telegraphing—and Sam’s head snaps back under the unexpected assault. “My plan is to fucking _try_ ,” he snarls, shoving Sam back toward the titanium wall. “My plan is to give a damn!”

Dean stalks forward again, relentless and practically vibrating with helpless anger, when his wrist is abruptly wrenched back in a bone-crushing grip. Cas stands solidly between the two of them, his sad eyes at odds with the uncompromising tension in his frame. Sam hadn’t even seen him move. The three of them stand motionless for a brief moment, coming to terms with the awkward tableau they all make. Cas is protecting him on Dean’s own earlier order, and his brother sags in the droid’s hold once he realizes it, letting out a too-sharp laugh at the irony.

“Yeah. Okay, Cas,” he says grimly. “Fair enough.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Cas tracks his movements with a mournful stare, but doesn’t actually loosen his hold until Dean backs away entirely. He probably can’t.

“Check it out,” Dean quietly tosses back to Sam. “You’ve got your own souped-up bodyguard.” He shakes his head and chuckles darkly. “Probably should’ve done that years ago.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam carefully picks his way across the distance separating them, eyeing Cas to make sure that he isn’t feeling compelled to manhandle anyone else. Dean catches his drift and raises his hands in submission until the angel seems to be able to back away. He still stays close though. Sam’s not entirely sure if that one’s all programming. “Dean,” he says again, resting his own palms over his brother's chest. “There’s nothing you’re gonna be able to do here, man.” He thumbs at where Dean’s collarbone should be under the stiff, gray fabric. “I’m not giving up, I’m—” Sam takes a slow breath to allow himself to get his thoughts in order. “—I’m being _pragmatic_. It’s what’s safer for everyone.”

Dean snorts under his hands. “Doubt you’d be able to take on Superman over there, even with crazy PCP strength.”

“Fine, it’s what’s safer for _you_ ,” Sam shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m not going to be able to stop it. I’m—” He cuts himself off and tightens his fingers into Dean’s jacket, the shoulder seams ripping even further at the strain. “I’m dangerous,” he whispers. “I’m a fucking time-bomb, man. And I can’t— I _won’t_ …” Dean brings a hand up to brush against the burgeoning bruise on his cheekbone, and Sam clenches his eyes shut before they can betray how _not_ in control he feels right now. “I can’t kill you. I don’t wanna be one of them—a _monster_.” He swallows hard and pushes through the lump in his throat. “I can’t live like that,” Sam grits out. “I don’t _want_ to.”

“You won’t,” Dean says reassuringly. “Sammy, you won’t. We’ll figure this out, just like we always do.”

Sam scoffs bitterly and jerks his face away from Dean’s hand. “This isn’t just another day at the office here, Dean,” he snipes. “This isn’t you breaking out of jail or getting Crowley to sell Lucifer out for friggin’ tax-evasion. This is real. It’s _permanent_.” He pins Dean with a serious stare. “And you have to face this.”

Dean holds his gaze and doesn’t even flinch. “Well, when I prove you wrong,” he says evenly, “you can just owe me a billion blowjobs and we’ll call it square.”

Sam lets out a broken laugh at his brother’s unshakeable doggedness and finally ducks his head in defeat. “You can’t even count that high,” he mutters.

“Screw you, I can count forever.” Dean wraps his hands around Sam’s face and stares into his eyes. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says fervently. “I’ll fix this.”

“How?” Sam asks, giving in and relaxing into Dean’s hold. “You gonna solve this whole Croatoan thing single-handedly?”

“M-hmm,” he hums in response, and Sam lets the deep rumble of his brother’s voice lull him into something approaching calm. “Same way we always handle things.”

“Blind, stumbling luck?”

“ _Research_ ,” Dean chides. He lays a final pat to Sam’s cheek, then drops his arms to cross them over his chest. “Not everyone turns,” he states confidently.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, the percentage of people who aren’t affected is like _remotely_ miniscule.”

“Then we figure out what they all have in common and go grab us some of whatever the miracle cure is.”

“What if it’s a genetic fluke?” Sam asks flatly.

His brother raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I will inject you with any sort of weird hoodoo that I need to.” Dean turns away from that slightly worrisome vow and gives his full attention to Cas. “You got records of those who were unaffected?”

Cas nods dutifully. “Of course,” he says. “It’s a simple case of searching through the databanks.” He blinks, then proceeds to chug away at whatever internal statistics he’s apparently found.

Dean gnaws at his bottom lip and starts pacing across the ship’s floor, nervous energy needing to escape somehow. “We need to figure out what the pattern is,” he says distractedly.

“We _need_ to handcuff me to a freaking radiator,” Sam grumbles under his breath.

“What about Dr. Robert?”

Sam makes a derisive sound. “Dean, the guy operates out of a Chinatown butcher shop.”

Cas clears his throat as he interrupts. “Preliminary scanning of the information _doesn’t_ seem to produce any discernable pattern,” he says, eyes clear again now that he’s completed his perusal of the material. “The unaffected victims of Croatoan seem to come from all walks of life and from multiple galaxies. No genetic predisposition for rare immunities. And there’s no clear divide along species lines.” He glances up apologetically. “By all accounts, the immunity appears to be random.”

“You’re a goddamn _computer_ , Cas,” Dean growls. “‘Random’ shouldn’t be in your fucking vocabulary.”

“I can run some more in-depth calculations,” Cas says a little moodily. Sam would be tempted to call it ‘sulky’ if the guy weren’t a robot. “But it will take more time.”

“ _How_ much more time?”

Cas gives Dean a sharp look. “I’m attempting to help. There’s no need for ingratitude.”

Dean scoffs. “You’ll get my _gratitude_ when you come up with something useful,” he says.

“ _Guys_ ,” Sam interrupts pointedly. “Not helping.” He runs a hand through his hair, then winces as his fingers snag through a tangle. “Look, I have no idea why Shurley let us go, but if you two keep wasting time by arguing like this, I’m gonna end up just as dead anyway.”

“Why did he?” Cas asks calmly.

“What?”

Cas narrows his eyes and repeats himself. “Why did Michael Shurley let you go? If his intention was to kill you, then why not do that?” His irises glow briefly as he runs the calculations. “There are roughly four hundred easier methods of getting you out of the way than by injecting you with a slow-acting poison.”

“Because he’s a sick freak,” Dean spits, his voice dark and cold. “It doesn’t always come down to logic, Cas. Some organics just like to cause pain.”

Sam swallows and drops his gaze to the ship’s flooring. “He didn’t seem to like me much,” he says quietly. “Not exactly sure why.”

The angel frowns. “Have you encountered him before?”

“ _No_ , Cas,” Dean says dryly. “When would we have ever crossed paths with a multi-trillionaire?” He slices a dismissive hand through the air and changes the subject. “Look, it doesn’t really matter what sort of mysterious beef the guy has with Sam. All I care about is fixing this damn thing.”

“And how are we gonna do that?” Sam asks again. “We’ve got no leads, Dean. Where do we even start?”

His brother’s eyes brighten suddenly and he jerks his head up to meet Sam’s gaze. “Bobby,” he announces proudly.

“Bobby Singer is not an immunologist,” Cas says with a puzzled quirk of his head.

A broad grin stretches its way across Dean’s face as he claps a hand to the droid’s shoulder. “Bobby’s always got answers, man. We should have rung him up, first thing.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, “if Bobby knew anything about Croatoan, he would have told us already.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sam,” Dean says cheerfully, striding over to the ship’s com-link. “Bobby could have this whole thing figured out in a sec if he put his mind to it. It’s just that _now_ he’s got incentive.”

“I’m not sure your brother is thinking clearly,” Cas whispers out the side of his mouth as Dean enthusiastically punches in Bobby’s number.

“I’m not sure he’s _ever_ thinking clearly,” Sam replies in kind. Then he shrugs as a pained smile twitches at his lips. “Doesn’t seem to stop him from succeeding more often than not, though.”

Cas hums contemplatively, and they watch as the line finally connects.

“Hello?” Bobby’s gruff voice comes buzzing over the com. The faint clink of glass indicates that he’s already started drinking. Sam snorts quietly to himself. It’s five o’clock somewhere.

“Bobby,” Dean says. “Need your help with something big.”

An exasperated exhale comes over the line and Sam hears him set his drink down. “What’d you two get all tangled up in this time?”

“It’s, uh—” Dean swallows and glances back at them. “It’s serious, Bobby.”

“You alright?” he asks sternly. There’s a groan of cheap metal, like he’s leaning forward in his chair. “What happened?”

Dean holds his breath for a moment, and Sam is tempted to step in before he finally starts talking again. “It’s Sammy. He—” His brother breaks off once more. 

“What about Sam?” Bobby prompts calmly.

“It’s Croatoan.” Dean looks startled at Sam’s interruption, but if he didn’t speak up, they were gonna end up circling the issue for hours. “I’m infected, Bobby,” Sam says, stepping up beside Dean’s shoulder and coming to a stop directly in front of the com-link.

There’s a long, charged silence, and then Bobby clears his throat with a harsh sound. “Flip on the monitor,” he says grimly.

“Bobby—” Dean starts to protest.

“ _Now_ , boy.”

Dean sighs, then waves on the large screen with a flick of his hand. Bobby’s larger-than-life face pops up in front of them, weary expression even more guilt-inducing in HD, and Sam sighs as he remains still through Bobby’s visual examination.

“Your eyes are still clear,” he says roughly. “So it hasn’t been that long. When’d it happen?”

“Couple of hours ago,” Sam replies quietly.

“How?”

Sam winces at that one and flicks his gaze over to Dean.

His brother sucks in a breath and picks up the slack. “Enoch,” he says simply. “We were chasing a lead on Croatoan and thought they might have some info.” Dean glares at the floor and clenches his jaw. “Turns out they had a lot more than that. Michael Shurley’s behind the whole thing. Injected Sam with a vial of the stuff to get us off his case.”

“ _Dammit_ , boys,” Bobby bites out.

“It’s not like we did it on purpose,” Dean shoots back defensively. “How were we supposed to know something like this would happen?”

“’Cause it ain’t your job to go sniffing around Enoch friggin’ Enterprises,” Bobby snits angrily. “Whaddya _think_ was gonna happen? They’d bake you a pie, maybe? You’d end up swapping secrets over a nice sit-down luncheon?” He lets out an aggrieved sigh over the audio link. “If you two idjits had called me _before_ you went off all half-cocked and asked me about this little plan of yours, you know what I would have said?”

“‘Good luck’?” his brother hazards a wry guess.

“I would have told you _not_ to go and do something so irreversibly blockheaded,” he scolds sharply. “And _now_ what’re you gonna do?”

“That’s kinda why we called you,” Sam admits quietly.

Bobby snorts and turns his disappointed stare on Cas. “And where were _you_ during this little escapade of theirs?”

Cas clears his throat awkwardly. “They told me to stay on the ship,” he replies, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. Sam’s just impressed that Bobby has the ability to make an android feel anything even approximating shame.

“Well, that’s just great, fellas,” he drawls. “Bang-up job all around.”

“Alright, we get it. We’re morons.” Dean throws his hands up in the air and rolls his eyes. “We ain’t gonna ever do anything again without asking you first. So could you please help us?”

Bobby reaches a hand up to adjust the cap on his head, eyes fading back to pained resignation as the initial anger bleeds away. “I can make a few calls, look through some info on my end, but…” He trails off with another sigh and turns his attention back to Sam. “Look, I’m gonna try my best, kid,” he says simply.

Sam tosses him a weak smile through the screen. “Yeah, I know. That’s all I can ask. Thanks.”

“You want me to come out there?” Bobby asks. “Meet up with you?”

Dean snorts under his breath at the suggestion. “You don’t have the fuel, man.”

Singer Salvage is a communications hub before it’s anything else, and Sam can’t even remember the last time Bobby used it as the scrapyard that it claims to be. Maybe back before his wife. Bobby’s been one of the main bounty hunter informants for as long as Sam’s memory stretches back, and the guy hardly ever uses fuel anymore. Just lets the salvage yard float through space. There’s no need to waste money on expensive propellant when everyone you ever deal with is either over a com-link or just ends up coming directly to your door. He does tend to keep the tank of his Chevelle filled up, but a small ship like that is only good enough for a trip of a hundred miles or so. Useful for picking up groceries from the nearest market, but not enough to come rendezvous with them when they’re four galaxies over. Sam appreciates the offer anyway.

“Thanks, Bobby,” he says warmly, “but we’re good. Call us if you find anything.”

“Yeah, alright,” Bobby says. He gives each of them a last look, lingering on Sam just a hair longer than the other two. “Try not to do something idiotic for the next couple of hours until I get back to you, okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll do our best,” Dean gripes, then waves off the screen again, cutting the connection. Dean lets out a disappointed breath, and Sam wonders if maybe they _should_ have taken Bobby up on his offer. It might put his brother in a better mood at least. But, they’d taken off as far as they could go after leaving Enoch, and even if Bobby did have enough fuel to make it to the nearest slingshot, there’s no way he’d be able to putter all the way over to their current position in deep space.

Sam jolts as a thought suddenly hits him. “What about the slingshots?” he asks intensely, shooting his hand out to grip at his brother’s shoulder.

“What? You do wanna go visit Bobby?”

“No, Dean,” he urges. “The _slingshots_. Think about it.” Dean just continues frowning at him like he’s nuts. “They’re teleports,” Sam says intently.

“Yeah, Sam. I know.” Dean peers at him, probably worried about pupil dilation or something. “We use them all the goddamn time.”

“ _Teleports_ , Dean,” Sam says again, and then he excitedly turns back to glance at Cas. “They scatter the ship’s molecules, and then they shoot it over to the receiving station. And then they reassemble it.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says slowly. “That’s how a teleport works.” He levels a concerned look at Cas. “Is the virus hitting him already?”

“No, you don’t get it,” Sam interrupts heatedly. “It’s not just the ship. They scatter everything _on_ the ship too. Including passengers.” He tilts his head, urging Dean to keep up with his line of thought. “And the stations keep records. If there was some way we could access a previous scan of _mine_ …”

Dean doesn’t seem to follow for a few seconds, but then his eyes go round once he finally realizes. “Holy shit,” he murmurs. “If we could get a molecular scan of yours from when you _weren’t_ infected, and then make the slingshot load _that_ at the destination…” He spins back to gape at Cas. “Would that work?”

Cas opens his mouth and holds it like that for a few moments. “The logic is… _feasible_ ,” he says cautiously, “but please be aware that it _isn’t_ a certainty.” The angel cautiously steps over to stand in front of Sam and slowly scans his eyes down the length of his body, while Sam tries not to fidget at the scrutiny. This is usually the part right before Cas tells him that his blood sugar’s too low or something. Cas finishes his scan and steps back with an unpleasantly stony gaze.

“What?” Dean asks warily. “That ain’t your good news face.”

“I’m sorry…but I don’t believe that Sam’s plan will work.” Cas lets out a despondent sigh, and then looks up to speak to him directly. “The infection seems to be coded to your DNA. The virus is affecting you on a subatomic level, and that’s not even mentioning your electromagnetic field—”

“Bottom line it for us, Bill Nye,” Dean interrupts bluntly. “What does that mean? Small words.”

Cas spares them both an apologetic glance. “There would be no way to separate the Croatoan cells from Sam’s regular ones. The slingshot wouldn’t be able to distinguish between what is virus and what is just Sam’s DNA. I can’t even do it.” He waves a fruitless hand over his chest again. “They both just read as _yours_.”

Sam reins in the swell of disappointment, barely even flinching as Dean hurls something breakable at the wall behind him.

“Well, that’s just fucking fantastic,” his brother snarls, lashing his foot out to kick at the couch for good measure. “Do me a favor and remind me never to get my hopes up _ever_ , okay?” Dean digs his fingers into the leather arm of the sofa, then takes a moment to calm himself down. “Doesn’t matter,” he says under his breath. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure out something else.” He rips off his ruined suit jacket and flings it into a corner, probably planning on letting the nanobots repair it later. “This doesn’t change anything,” he says adamantly, yanking at his tie until it comes loose. “I’ll fix it.” Dean dumps the rest of his suit in a heap, shedding layers like he’s physically trying to rid himself of the whole painful mess, and stalks into the bathroom hallway without looking back.

Sam watches him go. He’s still trying to come up with something to say when the shower switches on.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

A few hours pass before Sam is willing to risk striding into the angry hornet’s nest that is Dean backed into a corner. But he comes bearing gifts. He tugs the patched dividing curtain closed as best he can with one hand—his right is currently curled around a small tumbler of their best whiskey—then skirts around the closest jump seat and pads his way up to the front of the cockpit. Dean is still sitting at the helm, the same way he has been for the last few hours, silent and almost motionless, fingers resting lazily against the half-wheel of the control column. They don’t have a planned destination, but one of the nav system’s flight patterns is digitally projected over the clear glass of the front windshield anyway. Winding lines of gold and dashes of luminescent green spread out across the display, tracking orbits and targeting courses. Sam clears his throat to announce his presence and dangles the drink temptingly in front of Dean’s face.

His brother reaches out for it almost immediately, swirling the amber liquid in the glass for a moment before practically downing half the thing in one go. “You actually get this out of a _glass_ bottle?” he asks quietly. 

Sam lets out a rueful huff of air and nods, even though Dean isn’t actually looking at him. “Figured that now would pretty much be the time to go all-out. Knew we had at least one decent bottle left.” He slouches down to lean across the back of the bench seat. “Had to look behind the fridge.”

Dean tosses him an anemic smile for his attempt at a joke. “You just bring this one for me?” he asks.

“Yeah, well.” Sam quirks his head. “I may have had two…or seven already.”

That one gets a real grin, bitter though it may be. “Seems about right.” Dean tips the glass to his lips again, slowing down to normal-sized sips. Sam smiles to himself as he slips over the seat. He’s trying to savor it probably, now that he knows the supply is limited.

They sit there for a while, Dean slowly finishing off his whiskey while Sam looks out at the stretching infinity of the glittering star field before them. It isn’t a terrible last view, all things considered. He’s always been a little more partial to planetary landscapes, mountains and sunsets and other things that require a horizon and/or atmosphere to experience, but beggars can’t be choosers—and the stars ain’t half bad. Sam has been stargazing with his big brother for practically his entire life. He guesses it’s pretty appropriate that this is what he gets to see now, at the end like this.

Dean drains his glass, then lets out a long sigh and drops his hand to rest in his lap. He’s silent and still for all of a minute before he’s twisting around to glance at the curtain blocking off the rest of the living quarters. “Where’s Cas?” he asks, too casually.

Sam deliberately stretches out across the leather instead of answering, eating up the distance between them, then drops his voice down two octaves and three decibel points. “Does it matter?” he asks suggestively, soft and dark as crushed velvet.

His brother blinks at the abrupt mood shift, then tosses the cheap tumbler over his shoulder without a second thought. It bounces off the metal flooring once, before rolling until it eventually comes to a stop just under the seat. “No,” Dean says emphatically, reaching out to tangle a hand in the back of his hair. “No, it does not.” He pulls Sam down on top of him, sliding the long curve of his legs lengthwise across the bench, and Sam is all too eager to comply. They’re both back in their usual lounge-around wear—Dean due to his shower, and Sam because he couldn’t stand being in that suit one more second without wanting to claw his own face off—and Dean somehow gets himself _and_ Sam’s left wrist tangled in the collar of his henley before he’s able to finally get it off.

Sam follows Dean back down until his brother is lying fully along the seat, chasing the warm, bare skin of his chest with fervent, lingering presses of his lips and tongue. He actually hasn’t had all that much to drink, despite his earlier exaggerations. He needed to be sober. He wants to remember this. For as long as he’s got left. Dean arches up underneath him with a pleased groan, and Sam flicks his tongue over a hard nipple. “Shh,” he urges quietly, all too aware that they’re not _exactly_ alone right now.

Dean groans again at the reminder and claws his fingers into Sam’s sides. “You’re killing me, man,” he gasps, then writhes beneath him as Sam nips at the underside of his pec on the way down.

He goes as slow as he can, tenderly brushing the tip of his nose along the dark gold of Dean’s treasure trail, and stopping only so that he can press another kiss to the skin just above the waistline of his jeans. Sam sucks in a shaky breath and drops his forehead against Dean’s lower abdomen, gripping his hipbones tight and soaking in the firm feel of his brother’s body against his own—until Dean’s muscles suddenly lock up underneath him.

“Stop it.”

Sam blinks in confusion. “What? You don’t want sex?” He lifts his head and narrows his eyes at his brother. “Is that even possible?”

“Not if you’re gonna do it like that,” Dean growls. He shifts up until he can support his own weight on his hands behind him and glares at Sam. “This isn’t a goddamn _goodbye_ , Sam. So stop acting like it is. If you’re gonna be all maudlin and shit, I’d rather not do it at all.”

Sam lets out a scoff and keeps his eyes fixed on the leather cushion. “You’re gonna regret that when you’re left with a hard-on and nothing but a snarling rage zombie to take it out on.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Dean makes to shove him away, but Sam catches his hand in his own. “Not exactly what I was thinking,” he purrs, caging his brother back against the seat with the weight of his body—desperately trying to bypass Dean’s upstairs brain in favor of his downstairs one. He grinds his hips down against the beginnings of Dean’s very noticeable erection, but all it seems to do is fuel the hesitation.

“Sammy, you’re not a goddamn _rage_ _zombie_.”

He sighs again, frustrated that Dean is refusing to just let him have this. “Not yet, anyway,” Sam says under his breath.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Sam.” Dean shoves at his chest again. “I’m not fucking you if this is some ‘last night on Earth’ thing.”

“It’s _not_ ,” he insists, lying through his teeth. “Maybe I just want to go slow right now. Why is that such a fucking problem for you?”

Dean stills in place, intensely scrutinizing his expression. “Slow, huh?”

Sam raises his eyebrows and tries to look sincere. “Yeah.” He swallows, then forces himself to meet his brother’s gaze head-on. “You got an issue with that?”

“…No, darlin’,” Dean says after another moment of silent study. “’Course not.”

Sam clears his throat quietly. “Good,” he says awkwardly. “Okay.”

Dean lets out an amused breath. “Okay,” he tosses back, just as wobbly. “Then c’mere,” he says softly, after a slight pause, and Sam slots in between his hips again. “Don’t know why you gotta be so difficult all the time, Sam.”

And Sam is about three seconds from full-out throttling the older man, before he looks up to catch an eyeful of Dean’s ‘teasing’ face. He lets out a strained sound of exasperation and glares at his brother. “You’re not funny, y’know.”

“I’m hysterical,” Dean says assuredly, then tugs Sam back down into a soft kiss. “Slow’s good,” he mumbles against his lips, tightening the hand at the nape of Sam’s neck and hitching his hips up until their belt buckles clink together. “Now stop talking.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the hypocrisy, but slowly begins to relax again under the soft, familiar sweeps of his brother’s hands—callouses catching and dragging against the well-worn material of his shirt. Dean groans into his mouth, trying to yank up Sam’s hem without detaching from his face, and Sam has to forcefully shove his brother down in order to strip it off. He surges up again the instant Sam’s shirtless, latching onto his collarbone and tracing the curved ridge with a long sweep of his tongue. Sam shivers deliciously at the wet glide, nerves alight with the sparking electricity of his brother’s touch. Each one of his molecules is perfectly tuned to Dean’s every command. They always have been. His brother can play him like a freaking _theremin_ —arousal spiking and whining with every slow pulse of Dean’s expert fingers.

He gasps at the warm slide of Dean’s mouth, relishing the tantalizing drag of skin on skin, until his brother starts inching his way lower, lips trailing down the sensitive insides of his arms and heading toward the scars littering the inner skin of his elbows.

Sam balks and flutters his hands up in a half-hearted protest. “No, you don’t need to—”

But Dean ignores him, gently pressing a kiss to each of the faded marks. Hot, tight shame flushes throughout every inch of Sam’s body until tears start prickling in the corners of his eyes. It’s been years, but the guilt never seems to go away completely. It’s been years, but he’s doing it again. He’s hurting Dean _again_. 

He never means to.

Sam ducks his head before his brother can catch him. If he gets too emotional, Dean will pump the brakes, and he _needs_ this to happen right now. This is their last hurrah and they both know it, even if the stubborn asshole in front of him refuses to admit it. His brother seems unbothered though, using the excuse of Sam’s bowed head to stretch up and brush his lips over the fresh mark on his neck, and Sam bites down on a muted whimper before it can escape his teeth. That one will heal at least—no collapsed veins there, or scarring from too many needles in the same spot… Sam goes rigid, wincing as his thoughts catch up with him. No, it _won’t_. It won’t get a chance to heal because he’ll be dead in two days. Or as good as, if Dean gets his way and Sam ends up roaming the universe as a frenzied monster with bits of his brother still caught in his teeth.

He shakes his head, violently shoving the melancholia out of his brain, and reaches down to rip at Dean’s fly, desperate to take his mind off of anything but the man below him. Dean grins roguishly at his apparent eagerness and helps in any way he can, wriggling sinfully underneath him until Sam’s able to yank his brother’s belt and jeans off completely. Then Dean lets out a breathy moan of anticipation as Sam goes to town on his own zipper, keeping a strong, steadying hand on Sam’s side to prevent him from tumbling off the bench while he strips in turn. The final tug sends him overbalancing and lurching into Dean’s arms, and he’s rewarded with a tight clench of his brother’s hands around his waist and shoulder.

“Easy there, kiddo,” Dean says warmly.

“Thought we weren’t talking,” Sam whispers back, leaning down to nip at Dean’s jaw. He drags the pads of his fingertips up his brother’s flank, twisting his nails to scrape lightly against the cut of Dean’s hipbones, and then snaps forward to suck at the strong column of his throat when Dean throws his head back at the sensation. He groans contentedly, and Sam drinks in the feel of the deep vibrations trembling under his lips.

Sam rolls his hips hard, grinding up along the heated line of his brother’s cock, and Dean clutches at his waist again, pulling him tight against his lap. His eyes go half-lidded at the contact, two thin strips of bottle green shining beneath the charcoal smudge of his eyelashes. Soft exhales of air start panting past his wet, parted lips. The gentle curve of his right hand winds itself through Sam’s hair. The rough, broad slide of his left grazes up his back. Little snapshots, every one. So Sam catches them all and shoves them deep inside his chest, keeping them warm against his heart. If he’s only got two days left, then they’re going to be full of Dean. Every single bit of him. His eyes. His hands. His voice.

Sam reaches out and scrabbles over the dash until his fingers trip over the seam of the central panel. He shoves at the center compartment until it unlocks, flipping out and open like a glove box, then blindly rummages through the stacks of old star charts and Bing Bong wrappers until his hands finally close over the compact tube of lubricant that they keep up here for emergencies. He jams the panel shut again with his elbow and tosses the pouch onto his brother’s chest. Dean snorts at the light thump, then scoops the tube up and holds it out over Sam’s hand until it automatically dispenses the desired amount of gel. He barely waits for Dean to click the top shut again before he’s snatching it out of his brother’s fingers and tossing it away. Sam would worry about being able to find it later, but it’s not like he’s gonna be around long enough to have to deal with it anyway. So screw it.

He lightly brushes the dry ridge of his knuckles down along his brother’s inner thigh, skimming over the fine smattering of hair, then loops his hand back up the underside of Dean’s leg and twists his wrist, giving his wet fingers the opportunity to press and tease around his rim. Quick and dirty usually gets both of them going just fine, but that isn’t how he wants to play it this time. Not for a farewell performance. Dean tenses for a nanosecond at the slick pressure—just the slightest hint of resistance, just like always—before he finally unclenches enough for Sam to slip inside. 

Dean’s muscles gradually go lax under the slow, careful thrusting and he arches up into Sam’s touch like a ship’s cat. “There you go, Sammy,” he encourages, breath hitching at the intrusion. “Go ahead and give it to me. Just like that.”

Sam lets out a broken groan—either at his brother’s words or the hot, sucking vise around his fingers, he’s not sure which—and leans in further, Dean’s knee pressing hard against his shoulder. He stretches and curls his fingers, steering way clear of Dean’s prostate, prepping just enough to get him ready for his cock without amping up the pleasure too much. Sam doesn’t want to get him anywhere _near_ the edge before they’ve even really started. And the instant he thinks Dean can take it, he’s yanking his fingers free with a obscene squelching sound and lining himself up against the slick, warm opening of his brother’s stretched hole.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean whispers, voice dark like temptation and sin. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

The autopilot trills out a vague asteroid warning, and Sam rivals it for pitch as he slowly, _blissfully_ slides home. This is where he’s supposed to be, where _Dean’s_ supposed to be. Always. As close as humanly possible. Part of each other in every single way that counts. In every way they can be.

Dean lets out a shaky exhale at being stuffed full and distractedly reaches up to confirm permission to correct course—and _god_ , that’s so hot. Still flying the goddamn ship while he’s getting fucked. Sam whines low in his throat and shoves in even harder. There’s nowhere left to go. He’s already rammed in as deep as he can get, flush against Dean’s ass, and all his thrusting does is rock Dean back against the seat.

“You gonna pull out at all?” his brother asks with a teasing chuckle. “’Cause I’ve heard it helps.”

But Sam just shakes his head, closing his eyes as he wraps Dean up tighter in his arms. He shifts around until Dean’s leg is hooked over his shoulder, and then rocks his hips up where he’s still buried in his brother’s velvet heat. Not pulling back at all, just pushing further and further in. Never letting up.

Dean groans as he catches on to Sam’s intentions, then throws his head back against the leather bench, legs clenching tighter around his shoulder and waist. Sam buries his face in his brother’s neck and breathes in, just rolling his hips against Dean’s prostate instead of thrusting—allowing them to grind and press against each other in the limited space of the cockpit. God, they’ve had sex up here so many times. And it’s always awkward and cramped and poorly thought-out. It’s always perfect. That thin, high whine of arousal ratchets up again, and Sam grits his teeth against the overwhelming urge to just slam into the tight ring of muscle gripping him so beautifully. It’s _always_ so fucking perfect. And this time is no exception.

Dean clenches around his cock with a strained gasp, and Sam has to force himself to stop moving before he comes too soon. He lifts his upper body away, leaning back as he fights to bring the boil back to a simmer. He wants this to last. _Needs_ it to. Sam grips at Dean even harder, hands spread wide across the sharp wings of his hipbones, and alternates his fingers over the few dark, thin bruises that have already been smudged into his brother’s pale skin. They’re his, and they’re gorgeous…but no one will be able to see them. Not like this.  _Dean_ is his. People need to know. Every one of the lithe-limbed escorts and spontaneous bar hook-ups that will come after him need to know that Sam was here first. He bends over again, back curving like a bow, and descends onto Dean’s neck—sucking an angry brand into the thin skin just under the blade of his jaw.

His brother lets out an amused breath at the attack, but graciously lets Sam continue on with his single-minded task. “Dude, what are you, a fifteen-year-old girl?”

“Shut up,” Sam rumbles, releasing the skin between his teeth. “I’m sick. You have to be nice to me.”

“I’m _always_ nice to you,” Dean says under his breath, and Sam jams his hips forward again, shutting Dean up with a click of his teeth and a well-placed moan. His brother swallows hard, leg slipping from his shoulder to rest in the crook of Sam’s elbow, and Sam loves him so much. God _damn_ , he loves him so _much_. And if this really is his last chance, he needs to tell him.

“Dean—”

“No.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the predictable hostility. “ _Dean_ —”

“Shut up,” he growls. “If you’re gonna fuck me, then _fuck_ me. Flapping your gums is not required.”

Sam lets out an exasperated sigh, but leans down to mouth the words into his brother’s throat anyway, the tip of his tongue snaking out to taste skin on the ‘l’. Then he does it again. And again. A trail of silent confessions winding down around Dean’s neck, over the curve of his shoulder, and then back across his chest, finally coming to rest over the steady beating of his heart. Dean places a gentle hand on the back of Sam’s neck, and that single, tiny gesture is what sends the liquid flash of heat careening down his spine to tug at his balls. Sam’s hips stutter forward gracelessly, his orgasm building and swelling out of his control until he might as well try to lasso a hurricane.

“Shit,” he gasps. “ _Dean_. I’m gonna—”

“Yeah. Go for it,” Dean urges him on, voice soft like distant thunder. “C’mon, Sammy. Wanna feel you come. Need it.” He twists his head to bury his face in Sam’s hair and breathes hot against the shell of his ear. “Let go, little brother.”

“ _Jesus Christ_.” Sam slams his hips forward, punching deeper into Dean’s wet warmth as his cock jerks desperately. And Dean pulls him in even closer, arms like unyielding iron across his back, holding him firm and safe until Sam completely shoots himself dry. He drops onto his brother’s chest with a choked-off sound and doesn’t even make an attempt to pull out. Dean sucks in a deep breath, probably trying to cool down the insistent arousal still lapping at his nerves, and Sam twists his neck down to blink at where they’re still joined together.

Dean hasn’t come yet, cock jutting blood-dark and neglected up across his belly. Sam thinks about making him wait. Maybe he could find the lube and quickly work himself open. Crawl back over his brother’s body and ride him ruthlessly, beg Dean to stay hard until he’s finished. He could try to pull a second orgasm out of his own exhausted body before Dean can even reach his first. A desperate attempt to wring this last moment out for all that it’s worth. 

Sam wonders if that makes him selfish.

“You fall asleep down there?” Dean asks, feigning levity. His hand twitches, desire to just push Sam down where he wants him clearly warring with the need to make sure that he’s okay. “I know I’m an impressive lay,” he teases, “but a man has needs.”

Sam lets a bittersweet smile tug at his lips. He reaches down, without even an attempt at a return volley, and wraps his palm around the thick length of his brother’s erection—soft, silken skin over body-warmed steel. Dean jerks a little as Sam pulls completely out of him—the action drawing hissed groans of over-sensitized pleasure from the both of them—and then he gasps again as Sam picks up the pace of the hand stroking his dick. He tightly pumps his brother in his hand until Dean’s eyes slam shut and his breathing starts edging close to critical levels, and then he relaxes his hold until his fingers are just barely grazing the delicate skin. Dean groans, vicious and frustrated, and Sam carefully bends closer to run his lips up along the heated length. Gentle and teasing all the way up to the crown. Sam sneaks his tongue out to twirl around the slit, squeezes his hand firm at the base, and then Dean goes off with a clenched moan, his fingers digging savagely into Sam’s forearm.

Sam catches the first pulse of hot come against his lower lip, but chuckles under his breath about mostly ducking away in time. The majority of it ends up splattered out across his brother’s stomach, and Sam snorts as Dean just lies there, panting like an overexerted racehorse.

“ _Fuck_ , Sammy,” he says breathlessly. Dean eventually shifts up to grab for his discarded shirt, eyes crinkling at the edges as he grins, but the lighthearted moment quickly drains away as the last few hours come crawling back. And Dean must catch his hangdog look, because he reaches out to stroke a hand over his knee. “Sam?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” Sam shakes his head at the question, blinking away the creeping sense of doom. “Just tired,” he lies.

“You wanna head to bed?” Dean asks, gesturing his head back toward the living quarters.

“No,” Sam says quietly, and much more honestly this time. “Not really.” He shifts around a little as he consciously picks at the stitching of the leather seat. “It okay if I stay up here?”

Dean’s face settles somewhere between softly reassuring and ominously grim. “Yeah. Sure, kiddo.” He scrapes a hand over his jaw, then throws his arm up over the back of the bench. “Long as you want, Sammy.”

He takes his brother up on his offer, nestling in against Dean's side and watching as he flips back to manual control, steering them back on course to whatever destination he’d chosen earlier. Dean’s random whims are definitely one of the weirder symptoms of his chronic wanderlust, but Sam’s learned that it’s best to just let them play out. He glances at the windshield as they leisurely pass by a gauzy field of cosmic dust, letting the gentle flashing of the nav system do its best to calm the apprehensive pounding of his heart.  

If Dean picks up on any of the tension, he doesn’t say a word.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_It’s raining._

_That’s always the first thing that Sam can remember. It’s raining, and tiny, stinging droplets of ice water are pelting down against the skin of his inner arms. They disappear where they fall against his shirt or his jeans—soaking into the drenched, freezing fabric wrapped around his body like the grim chill of death—but he can feel the drops when they hit his skin. And they hurt. It hurts. Why does it hurt?_

_It’s not supposed to hurt. Ruby **promised** him— Sam lets out a pitiful wail and rolls the back of his head against the rough wall of concrete behind him. He can feel it now, the hollow, **agonizing** emptiness at the pit of his being. Like someone’s punched a ragged hole straight through his chest. The monster stirs again, rises like a slowly-waking dragon as it tries to claw its way past Sam’s throat—up and out so that it can escape, leaving bloody trails of carnage everywhere it gouges its talons into his flesh. Sam shoves at the emotion, sobbing pathetically as he tries to force it back. He doesn’t want it. He wants to feel numb again. He **has** to feel numb again. It’s the only way he can breathe. Sam’s fingers scrabble at the cement underneath his hands, his fingernails tearing off bloody as he fights against the suffocating grief.  _

_The entire world is gray around him. Gray and wet because the sky is in mourning. The sky is in fucking mourning because Sam is too, and it’s only fair. Reflected afterimages of the neon adverts on every building seep through the puddles littering the sidewalk that he’s sitting on, and Sam wants to destroy them. He wants to tear through every last one, viciously shattering the liquid reflections with the soles of his boots because color isn’t allowed. Color isn’t allowed anywhere that Dean isn’t—and it’s **never** allowed around Sam. Not ever again. Color is for people who deserve it._

_That monstrous feeling of loss tears through his chest again and Sam lets out another keening sob. Worthless noises from a worthless fucking man. Sometimes, he hopes that someone will hear the wretched moaning and come put him out of his misery. Two quick blasts to the head, like a rabid dog. But no sane person would be out in weather like this anyway. The Channel Sigma broadcast had let everyone know that there would be an irrigation storm scheduled from 12:00pm to 4:30pm today. No one who has any place better to be would ever head out in a downpour like this. No one other than Sam fucking Winchester._

_But wallowing like that just causes the self-loathing to start building up on top of the already choking misery flooding his system, and Sam can’t handle both emotions at once. He needs to find Ruby. If he finds Ruby, he can get more of what he needs. She promised him that she could always get him what he needs. …How long has he been sitting here?_

_Sam struggles to push himself to his feet, but his limbs aren’t working quite right, wobbly and weak like Arpathien gelatin. He always feels better when he’s on the Blood—stronger, faster, more agile—but the aftermath seems to sap more and more energy from him every time he uses. Maybe eventually, he won’t be able to move at all. Sam thinks he might like that. He wouldn’t mind never being able to move again as long as the numbness stayed too._

_He shifts to get up once more, and his boot clinks against the empty glass of the hypo lying beside him in the alley. Sam doesn’t remember putting it there, which means that it must have fallen from his hand when the emotional anesthesia kicked in. Or, maybe it fell straight from his arm, tumbling out of the tapped vein while Sam was too blissed-out to feel the needle detach. He lets out a pained chuckle at the thought. Isn’t that just a perfect metaphor for everything in his life?_

_A boot steps into the puddle nearest his hand and Sam wonders if this man has finally come to kill him. He hopes it’s a lamia. He can probably get a lamia mad enough to shoot him if he insults the guy’s hatchlings. Sam is almost positive that he knows some really nasty taunts, but it’s a little hard to think right now._

_“Sammy,” whispers the rough voice._

_The lamia sounds heartbroken—hurt and angry—and Sam starts quietly crying again at the unintentional reminder of his brother. “D-don’t call me… S’not—” He shakes his head back and forth against the wall as he tries to string the words together. It’s always harder when he’s coming down like this. “Jus’ **don’t** ,” he sobs._

_Sam drags his leaden skull up to glare at the alien who’s intent on torturing him, and instead comes face-to-face with the spitting image of Dean. It’s his brother’s perfect, gorgeous face and the grief rips through him anew. Because Dean is still in the Pit. Sam knows this for a fact because **he** was the one who put him there. Which means that his drug-soaked brain is just playing tricks on him again. Nothing too out of the ordinary, considering the past few months—but the withdrawal hallucinations really aren’t supposed to hit quite yet. It’s only been a few minutes. Sam wonders if this means he’s getting worse._

_There’s another dark-haired man standing behind the mirage of his brother, and at least Sam’s brain has him suitably dressed for the weather. His tan trench coat comes down to his calves, the hem dripping dirty rainwater against the black leather of his shoes, and the stranger is staring at him with an expression of such clinical detachment that Sam wants to thank him. It’s like he’s simply observing a mildly puzzling conundrum, instead of feeling pity or disgust for the shameful display laid out before him. It’s a soothing balm of indifference compared to the look of shattered pain that the hallucination of his brother is currently wearing. Dean, for his part, looks healthier than the likeness Sam’s brain usually cooks up—guilt and blame fighting for dominance in the stew of his subconscious—but there are deep, purple bruises under each eye. Like he hasn’t slept at all for the past four months._

_Sam closes his own eyes and drops his head back against the wall with a hitched sigh. “Are you g’nna kiss me or tell me y’hate me th’s time?” he asks his hallucination. “M'not good at keepin’ track… Can’t r’member wha the las’ one was.” Sam sighs again and swallows around the sodden tightness in his throat. “Not s’posed to be seein’ things this soon after,” he croaks pathetically. “Think ‘m gettin’ worse.”_

_The image of Dean slips to his knees with a mournful sound and gently wraps his fingers around the outside of Sam’s arms, careful to avoid the fresh track marks burning red and swollen in the pits of his elbows. “It’s me, Sammy,” he says brokenly. “How did—?” Not-Dean swallows and then tightens his brutal grip on Sam’s arms. “You couldn’t hold out for four measly months, asshole? The fuck did you think you were doing?”_

_“How’re you touchin’ me?” Sam slurs, eyes blown open in shock. “Y’r touchin’ me. They can’t do that.”_

_“I’m real, you goddamn motherfucker,” Dean growls. “I swear to god, it’s really me. And, Sammy? I am going to beat your pretty little head in.”_

_“Sammy.”_

“Sammy,” the voice breaks through again.

Sam jolts from his doze, spitting out a mouthful of thin fabric as he jerks away from his makeshift pillow. “Huh—what?”

Dean glances down at him, amused affection wrestling with worry in the depths of his gaze. “Y’alright?”

Sam frowns and blearily blinks down at where he’d been unconscious just a second ago. Dean had apparently slipped on boxers at some point because there’s a wrinkled patch of fabric over his upper thigh that’s just about the size of Sam’s face. He must have conked out on his brother’s lap while Dean was still piloting the ship. “What?” he asks again—inspiringly eloquent.

Amused affection wins out and Dean brushes a sleep-tangled mess of hair away from his forehead. “You were making some sounds. Thought you might be having a nightmare.”

Sam swallows and runs a hand over his face. “Oh,” he says. “No, not really. More of a memory, I guess.”

Dean’s eyes flip back to concerned. “Decent one?”

Sam opens his mouth, takes a breath, and another lie comes trickling out before he’s even decided to tell one. “Remember that time Dad took us to the Coronnian fair? With all the flags?”

Dean snorts at the reminder, turning back to grin out at the stars. “You mean after the ghoul case?” he asks. “When he left to go hand over the bounty and we had free reign of the vendor area? And then you ate about thirty sugar fritters and ended up puking all over that health inspector chick?” Dean chuckles fondly, shoulders shaking at the memory. “That time?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiles weakly. “That’s the one.” Dean glances back to face him, probably intent on teasing him mercilessly, but his eyes catch on Sam’s and he frowns worriedly. “What?” Sam asks self-consciously, furrowing his own brow in confusion.

“Nothing,” Dean replies way too quickly, “you just—” He freezes up for a second, then sniffs and turns back to the wheel. “You look tired is all.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Sam says sarcastically. He leans back against the bench seat and rubs his fingers over the corners of his eyes as he acclimates to being awake. “What time is it?” he yawns widely. Dean gives him a half-hearted shrug, so Sam taps on his own cybernetics to check. The blinking, red numerals cheerfully inform him that it’s **9:07 AM** , Earth time. It’s kind of arbitrary, really. Days have completely differing lengths all over the universe, depending on each planet’s specific rotational orbit, so there actually isn’t any standard way of telling time across galaxy lines. He and Dean tend to keep their cybernetics set to the same 24-hour cycle as their ship though. Makes things simpler. A notification suddenly pops up to inform him that his anti-virus software is out of date, and Sam tries not to wince at the painful irony. 

He forces himself away from the harsh reminder of his own situation— _it’s only gonna get worse_ —and shuts off the small, holographic screen. “I miss anything seriously important while I was out?” he asks his brother, but Dean just shrugs again.

“Not anything useful,” he says gruffly, eyes fixed on the windshield.

Sam sighs at the statement and curls his fingers against his leg. “So, do we have anything even resembling a plan? Or are we just crossing our fingers and hoping for a miracle on this one?”

Dean keeps his gaze even and not on Sam. “Cas ran a few more ‘in-depth’ scans…”

“Anything helpful?”

“No,” he replies grimly. Dean smacks his hand against the control column and snarls at the dashboard. “Why is it that when we’re tracking down some random lowlife, Cas can rattle off the guy’s mother’s maiden name, favorite restaurant, and childhood _pet_ —but now, when we actually _need_ him, he’s a useless heap of junk?”

“That’s not fair, Dean,” Sam says quietly.

“I don’t give a fuck about fair,” his brother spits, knuckles white where his fingers are clenched around the yoke. Dean takes a deep breath, digs his teeth into the meat of his lower lip, and then forcibly calms himself down. “We’re waiting on Bobby,” he says. “That’s our play. He’s gonna call us back with some miracle bit of info, just like he always does, and that’s how we’re gonna end up dealing with this thing.”

Sam bites at the inside of his cheek. “Or he won’t.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean growls warningly.

“I’m just saying, Dean,” he adds quietly.

“Well, _don’t_.”

An awkward throat-clearing makes itself known from the other side of the room divider, and Sam is suddenly extremely aware of his own state of undress. Cas sounds like he’s shuffling around a bit, unsure of how to proceed, but he eventually decides to speak up anyway. “I know I’m not supposed to, uh— _interrupt_ ,” he says hesitantly, “but there’s an incoming call on the com-link. I figured you’d want to know.”

Dean scrubs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah, thanks, Cas,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Give us a second.” He flips the switch back to autopilot, then reaches down to fling Sam’s discarded v-neck in his face. “C’mon, man. You don’t want to traumatize our angel, do you?” Dean yanks his own shirt over his head and goes padding out into the living quarters, leaving Sam to scramble into the rest of his clothes by himself.

Sam follows fairly quickly, tugging the curtain out of the way once he’s decent, and then slips into the main room and makes his way over to where Cas is watching Dean settle down in front of the com-link. “Who is it?” Sam asks quietly.

Cas grants him a indecipherable look. “Benny,” he says. And Sam can feel his intestines suddenly shrivel up out of sheer spitefulness.

Benny, the goddamn _vampire_. Sam’s least favorite addition to his brother’s limited social network. Technically speaking, he’s a desmodus—a Bramic species that preys on basically any organic with liquid in their veins. They’ve got a mouth full of shark teeth as opposed to the delicate dual fangs usually depicted in old Earth vids, but they drink blood and look vaguely human, so the nickname had stuck. Plus, there’s that whole _sensitivity to light_ thing too.

“Benny,” Dean says amiably, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “As I live and breathe.” 

“How you been, brother?” The shitty connection crackles a bit, fracturing Benny’s words into little disjointed pieces. It doesn’t make him sound any less charming though, and Sam digs his fingernails into his palms at Dean’s look of easy camaraderie from just the sound of his friend’s voice—even though the guy’s probably halfway across the universe. 

“About as decent as can be expected,” his brother says, bringing one bare leg up to rest against his opposite knee. “You know how it is.”

“Sure do,” Benny tosses back, sounding like he’s actually, sincerely interested in Dean’s response. “Listen, Dean. I wouldn’t have called like this if it wasn’t urgent. Kinda got a life or death situation here, man.” 

Dean sighs a little awkwardly, and Sam tries not to let the smugness spreading through his chest creep onto his face.  _Sorry, Benny. Dean’s dance card is a little full at the moment. Ask again later._  “Look, Benny.” His brother spares him a stricken glance before turning back to the speaker. “I’ve got a little ‘life or death’ of my own on my plate right now.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Benny’s warm, lazy rasp comes chuckling over the com-link. “Now ain’t that just the way of the world?” There’s a rhythmic clicking sound for a few moments, like Benny’s drumming his fingers against the receiver, before he speaks up again. “Think you might be able to find some way to visit for a spell? After you’ve got your first thing handled, of course.” 

And _god_ , it’s such an infuriatingly _understanding_ reaction. Like he’s totally willing to wait for Dean to handle his more important business before he even thinks about dealing with Benny’s—even when, by his own account, his circumstances are pretty fucking dire. Sam swallows against the acid eating away at his stomach and finally decides to add to the conversation. “Figured we kind of had our hands full here,” he snipes under his breath, just loud enough that Dean can hear him without it carrying over the line. “Unless you think hanging out with your buddy is a better use of your time.” It’s a low blow, and completely unfair—Dean would never even _think_ of abandoning him at a time like this—but Sam can barely help it. He always gets this way around Benny, and the recent stress he’s been under definitely isn’t helping things. “I’m like one hundred percent sure this is _exactly_ the type of ‘something idiotic’ that Bobby told us _not_ to do today,” he continues, when it looks like his brother might actually be considering it. Cas spares him a neutral look, and Sam tries not to feel like the biggest asshole in existence.

Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache and looks back to guiltily wince at Sam—who isn’t budging an _inch_ on this issue, thankyouverymuch—before turning to the com. “You wanna at least give me a hint on what you’re dealing with over there?” he asks dryly. “Or are we playing Twenty Questions?”

“...Croatoan,” Benny says, after a brief moment of tension. One word, and just like that, Sam knows their metaphorical bags are already as good as packed. He and Dean share a few seconds of wordless communication from across the room, and then Sam lets out a resigned sigh. He isn’t particularly looking forward to spending the day with his brother’s prison BFF, but this is the closest thing to a lead they’ve had yet. They’d be stupid not to chase it down.

“Okay, man,” Dean says into the receiver. “We’ll be there quick as we can. Just shoot us over your coordinates.”

Benny does so, graciously effusing his thanks, and then finally cuts off the connection with a sharp click.

Dean drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. “Whaddya think?” he asks tersely. “Good news?”

“That seems unlikely, given the odds,” Cas reports.

Dean lets out a bitter laugh at the angel’s answer and keeps his eyes on the floor. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking too.”

“Dean,” Sam begins diplomatically. “If this doesn’t end up panning out, we don’t have a ton of time for you to run around reminiscing with your war buddy.”

“ _Jesus_ , Sam,” he snits. “I’m doing this for _you_.” Dean shoves himself up off the couch and heads back to the cockpit after his jeans. “What’s your deal with Benny anyway?” he shoots over his shoulder. “You don’t even know the guy.” His brother hops a bit as he pulls his pants over his legs, then zips up his fly with a forceful tug. “And he’s been nothing but friendly whenever he’s on the com.”

“He’s an ex-con,” Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes and snags his jacket from under the seat. “ _I’m_ an ex-con.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Screw you, of course it counts,” he tosses back casually.

“You didn’t do it.”

Dean’s eyes jerk up to meet his—for the first time since Sam’s woken up, it seems like—and he stays motionless through the awkwardly stretched silence. “Half an hour ‘til we reach the closest slingshot,” Dean says, calmly changing the subject. He steps around Sam and heads for the bathroom hallway. “Be ready to go planetside by then.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

What Sam’s been able to piece together over the years—from both Dean and Cas’s unreliably spotty account of their daring prison break—is that although Benny was instrumental in helping them out of Perdition, he received all the benefits of the physical escape with none of the record-clearing perks that Cas managed to swing for Dean. And as such, is forced to spend his life way, _way_ under the radar from any potential synthetic scans. A tall order in today’s digital age. His current hideout of choice seems to be a junked, derelict fleet, and Sam’s pretty sure—the way his luck seems to be going—that he’s gonna wind up with Tetanus by the end of the day to complement his first infection.

The small marsh planet that they’ve been traipsing across all morning is situated right on the edge of the Outer Cluster, smart thinking for someone looking to quietly slip by the law, and from what Sam has seen, looks to be almost entirely abandoned. The seemingly infinite spread of bayous and swamps probably help with the population problem, but he can’t imagine spending any lengthy amount of time here without going crazy from just the sheer isolation of it all. A menacing clicking sound bubbles up out of the nearest fetid bog, and Sam’s pretty sure he’s seen more than one cluster of bioluminescent eyes watching them as they pass by. He has absolutely no desire to find out firsthand what kinds of creatures like to lurk in murky lakes like this—or if they have a sweet tooth for pigheaded older brothers—so Sam shuffles in a little closer to Dean, just in case one of them decides to make a move.

After another long stretch of hiking, Benny finally shows up to greet them at their established rendezvous point, stepping out onto the deck of one of the multitude of abandoned boats. He's also, apparently, completely unconcerned by the way its decaying hull keeps creaking ominously under his boots, judging by his sure strides across the metal. Benny's face is hidden by a brimmed fisherman’s cap and thick, dark sunglasses—protection from the sun most likely—but Sam’s still able to make out the broad grin that spreads across his jaw the minute he spots his brother. “Dean,” he calls out jovially, loping down the rusty steps and out onto the marsh. “How long’s it been, brother?”

“Depends on who you’re asking,” Dean says warmly, reaching out for a handshake. “Warp drive fucks with the chronology a bit.” Benny chuckles at the statement and uses Dean’s hand to pull him into a brief hug. “Cas says ‘hi’, by the way,” his brother adds, offhand.

“Oh, yeah?” he grins. “How is that ol’ bucket of bolts?”

Dean gives him a lukewarm shrug instead of a response, and Benny laughs again.

“He’d be here, but we noticed that unmanned ships tend to get junked around these parts,” Sam says, doing his best to worm his way in between any potential bonding moments.

Benny smiles at the interruption, completely unperturbed. “ _Sam_ ,” he says, turning to stretch out a polite hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard quite a bit from Dean here.”

Sam hesitantly reaches out to wrap his own hand around Benny’s chilled one and fights back a slight grimace. Of course he has to be totally courteous and welcoming, making Sam feel even more like shit than he already did. Perfect fucking Benny, who probably only lives off of _offered_ blood because he’s a goddamn saint. He throws him a tight smile in place of a greeting, and thanks whoever’s listening that the desmodus seems to accept it without question.

Benny flicks his gaze back to Dean, then belatedly seems to notice the bright red hickey on his brother’s neck. “You make a new friend?” he asks wryly, lifting a curious eyebrow.

Dean claps an automatic hand over the brand, then quickly smoothes his expression into one of feigned lewdness. “You know it,” he lies expertly. “Stopped by a lounge last night. Trying to blow off some steam.” Dean grins sharply, as over-the-top as he can get away with. “ _Man_ , you should see the chicks on Brava.” He waggles his eyebrows as he points at the mark. “Plenty more where that one came from.”

Benny’s nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his eyes flick over to Sam for a tenth of a second, slight frown marring his features. Then it disappears so fast Sam’s not even sure it existed at all, his gaze settling back on Dean with an easy grin. “Whatever you say, brother,” he drawls. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“You do that,” Dean says lightly. “And be sure to hit me up if you ever need a _tour guide_  around those parts.”

“Will do,” he chuckles. Then Benny claps his hands together and turns back to the boat he first came from. “Alright, might as well invite you up if we’re gonna get down to business. C’mon in.” He leads the way onto the swaying deck, and Sam winces at the worrisome groaning the ship makes under their combined weight, but trails behind his brother as he follows the Benny into the darkness of the main cabin. At least Benny’s houseboat seems to be the most seaworthy of all the ancient wrecks floating around the bayou, but that really isn’t saying much.

“Jeez, Benny,” Dean says once they’re inside, and safely away from the eyes of whatever mysterious (and probably hungry) swamp critters those were earlier. “You’ve got your pick of the universe to settle down in, and you choose a dump like this?” He raps his knuckles against the dented, metallic walls and a hollow sound rings throughout the cabin.

Benny shrugs and throws Dean a charismatic grin. “Once a pirate, always a pirate,” he says, gesturing fondly at the leaking heap around them. “What can I say? Reminds me of better times.”

“Is that why you were in prison?” Sam asks coldly. “Piracy?”

Dean glares at him for the rude comment, but Benny just meets his eyes behind the tinted lenses. “Yes, Sam,” he says honestly. “Yes, it was.”

There’s a brief moment of awkwardness, and then Dean steps over to the room’s thick table, running his fingers over the pitted driftwood. “Ignore my brother,” he grumbles. “Sammy’s just been dealing with his time of the month. He gets a little bitchy.”

Benny pauses for a moment, and Sam wonders if he actually believes him. It’s not like your standard desmodus Health class would have a section on humans. Sam lets out a low breath and keeps his scathing retort to himself. Just another reason to throttle his brother when they get out of here.

Dean glances up at Benny and rests his ass against the edge of the table. “So,” he starts. “We gonna brass some tacks, man? ‘Cause we did come all the way out here.” He casually crosses his arms over his chest. “You said something about Croatoan on the com-link earlier.”

Benny slowly lowers his head and his dark glasses flash under the dim ceiling lighting. “Yes, I did,” he sighs quietly. There’s another moment of strained silence before Benny forces himself to speak up again. “Sure wish it didn’t have to go down like this,” he says, and then he reaches up to deliberately slip his sunglasses away from his temples. It’s fairly dark in the houseboat’s main cabin—has to be, for a vampire to live comfortably during the daylight hours—and Sam suddenly understands why he hadn’t taken them off the minute they stepped inside. Benny hesitantly glances up to meet their stares, and Sam sucks in a surprised breath at the man's bloodshot eyes—a violent band of _red_  slashing across his features. 

He’s infected.

Benny, the _vampire_ who wouldn’t hurt a freaking fly. Benny, the loyal companion who risked life and limb to remain at his brother’s side through utmost peril. Who did _everything_ in his power to drag Dean’s ass out of that godforsaken prison camp while Sam was strung-out and drooling in some back alley. He’s infected, and there’s no fucking cure. Sam immediately feels all of the jealousy and the spite slowly drain away to be replaced with something that feels a lot like empathy. Him and Benny—basically peas in a pod now.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Benny says—raspy, like his vocal cords have been scoured raw. He makes a forced attempt at a chuckle, a counterfeit smile wavering over his lips. “Got a genuine case of Croatoan, right here.” He splits the syllables—genu- _ine_. “Thought you’d wanna know.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers. He unconsciously starts to reach a hand out, then thinks better of it and clamps his fingers around the edge of the table he’s leaning against. “How?” he asks, voice rough with emotion.

Benny huffs out an embarrassed breath and slips a thumb under the sweatband of his cap to scratch at his temple. “I’ll give you three guesses, but you ain’t really gonna need the last two.”

Dean lets out a broken sound and runs a hand over his face. “Was she at least hot?”

“Beautiful as a Vureen sunrise,” Benny says softly. That smile is genuine at least. Genu- _ine_.

“How did you miss that she was infected?” Sam asks quietly. “Did she bite you?”

Benny chuckles at Sam’s question, sucking at his teeth as he reminisces. “Kinda the opposite, actually, Sam. It’s passed through blood and that goes both ways.” He closes his eyes like he’s berating himself for the slip-up. “She was in the early stages, no symptoms. Tell you the truth, I don’t even think _she_ knew she was infected.”

“Why’d you call us here, Benny?” Dean looks like he’s going to be sick—face bloodless and gray from so much more than just the houseboat’s dim lighting. “There’s no cure.”

Benny lifts his head high, like it’s taking an immense display of willpower to look his brother in the eye. “Well, I _was_ gonna ask you to do something for me, Dean,” he says. “Something that I’m _not_ going to now.”

“Why not?” Sam asks, but his words are immediately drowned out by his brother’s.

“What do you need?” Dean questions grimly.

Benny lets out a bittersweet sigh. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know there ain’t no cure. I just needed someone I could trust, who I knew could handle…” he breaks off to rephrase his sentence a little more delicately, “—handle what _needed_ to be done.” Benny sets his shoulders and gives Dean a determined look. “But, brother, I ain’t gonna ask you that anymore.  _Considering_.” He tilts his head knowingly and trails off into silence. The water outside echoes tinnily as it laps against the hull of the ship.

“…considering?” Sam prompts after a moment.

Benny flicks his eyes over to solemnly meet Sam’s gaze. “Considering that _you’ve_ got it too.”

His mouth goes dry, and Dean pushes away from the table to come stand at his side. “How did you know that?” Sam asks, a hint of wary defensiveness winding its way through his tone.

Benny lets a sad smile slip out and gently taps at the tip of his nose. “I can smell it on you. Well, that—and the eye thing.” His smile wavers on his face and then disappears. “You might wanna invest in a pair of these, friend,” he suggests ruefully, twirling his sunglasses between his fingers.

Sam swallows hard and slants his gaze over at his brother. “What does he mean ‘the eye thing’?” he asks lowly. Dean sucks in a breath to start equivocating, and Sam glares like a laser. “ _Dean_ ,” he whispers harshly. But his brother remains silent. Sam clenches his fists at his sides until he can feel his knuckles crack. “Is that why you haven’t been looking at me this whole time?”

Dean winces at the accusation. “It’s not that bad, Sammy,” he says guiltily. “You just look a little tired.”

“Were you _ever_ gonna tell me?”

His brother’s eyes flash indignantly, having finally been pushed too far. “Can we not do this right now?” he spits. Then he walks back over to Benny, intentionally ignoring Sam’s withering stare. “How long you got?”

Benny’s eyes distractedly slip over to a small, aluminum cabinet at the edge of the room. “Not long,” he sighs, then fixes his attention back on Dean. “Which means, you two better haul ass outta here, quick as a cricket.”

“What did you need me to do?” his brother asks darkly.

“No, Dean,” Benny says calmly.

“What…did you need…me to do?” he repeats menacingly.

Benny swallows hard and glances at Sam, but he doesn’t give the vampire any help at all. He doesn’t have any to _give_. He’s just as much at a loss as the rest of them—probably more so, considering. Sam lets out a pained scoff and drops his eyes to the cabin floor.  _Considering_. 

“I was gonna ask you to end it for me,” Benny admits quietly, stepping across the room to open the cabinet. “Cash in that old chestnut of a favor.” He pulls out an old machete that’s definitely seen better days and carefully places it on the table. “Thought it’d be easier than trying myself,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes again—a challenge this time. “You wanna help me out? Do it, before I turn.”

Dean swallows hard. “Not everyone turns.”

“That’s fool thinkin’, chief,” Benny says, shaking his head gently. “I mean, yeah, that pie in the sky may sure sound nice, but it’s no way to feed your family.” His face twists into a teary-eyed grin as he prods at his brother. “C’mon, you wimp.”

“No,” Dean says stubbornly, refusing to even _look_ at the blade on the table. “Not yet. We’ve still got time.”

“ _What_ time, Dean?” Benny throws a hand back to gesture at the large clock projected against the far wall. “I’ve been keeping track. I know exactly how long I’ve got left. And it’s _pennies_.” He drops his hand and lets out a wistful chuckle. “Look, I’m no good on the outside, man. Running from the law breathing down my neck? Hiding out in this bone yard, alone? After a while, that starts to wear on you.” He wets his dry lips and nods to himself. “Truth is, I could use a break from it all.”

“No,” Dean says again, resolute. “I ain’t killing you until I know there’s no other option.”

“There _is_ no other option, brother,” Benny says sadly, his bleeding eyes brimming with tears. He turns to give Sam a final nod, and then holds his hand out to Dean. “C’mon. Let’s get on with it.”

Dean grasps Benny’s outstretched hand firmly in his own. “I’m not doing anything until I have to,” he rasps quietly. “Not everyone turns.”

The desmodus laughs wetly under his breath. “ _C’mon_ , Dean,” he drawls. “You’re gonna have to—” Benny cuts off with a loud, hacking cough, and then suddenly stills in place. 

“Hey,” Dean prods worriedly. “You alright, man?” Benny snaps his head up, eyes flashing wildly, and then lunges forward with a vicious growl, yanking _hard_ at his brother’s hand as he savagely launches himself at Dean’s neck.

“ _Dean!”_ Sam’s heart clenches like a fist in his chest as he sprints to his brother’s side, racing across the room as Dean wrestles with the snarling vampire suddenly snapping at his throat. Benny’s razor-sharp teeth gleam in the low light as he surges forward again, and Sam makes it over just in time to wrench the desmodus away, straining with everything he has to keep the much stronger man back as Dean wildly scrabbles for the machete. Sam gets a hand around Benny’s coat collar and _pulls_ , keeping a hold through Benny’s violent struggling, and then leans as far away from the line of fire as he can, clamping his eyes shut as Dean swings the machete in a viciously brutal arc. There’s a warm spray of liquid across his face, a dull, rolling thud, and then an unexpected weight as Benny’s body goes slack in his hands. Sam drops the corpse to the floor and blinks through the blood staining his vision to focus on his brother, panting and horror-stricken as the blade gradually tumbles from his nerveless fingers.

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, staring mournfully at Benny's remains, until his higher thinking kicks in and he lurches toward Sam. “Are you alright?” he growls frantically. “Did he get you?”

“Dean, _don’t!”_  Sam throws up a defensive hand and quickly stumbles backwards. “Don’t touch the blood. It’s infected.”

Dean freezes in place, but his eyes go round with fear. “It’s on you,” he gasps. “I got it on you. In your _eyes_ —”

Sam lets out a bitter snort and drops his hand. “I’m already sick,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t matter.”

That seems to calm Dean down for the moment, and he throws Sam a pained nod before turning back to face Benny’s corpse. 

They stand there, speechlessly, as they both stare down at the bloody mess. No enforcers will find the body out here. Not if they couldn’t manage to track Benny down while he was alive. Dean and him are good, even if it feels like anything but.

Sam lets out a sigh, and then strips his ruined shirt off and uses it to wipe most of the blood from his face. His brother doesn’t even flinch. “Look, Dean,” he starts hesitantly. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. Benny was— I know he was your friend, and…”

Dean cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head and a tight grimace. Sam thinks it’s probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. “Sam, it’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to fucking pretend for me.” Dean lets out an exhausted breath and drops his shoulders. “Look, I know you got no use for him—”

“No,” Sam interrupts, shaking his head. “No, you know what? I get it. He’s—” He has to stop to correct himself, changing the tense. “He _was_ a good guy. He was. And…I’m sorry it took me this long to say it.”

His brother remains silent for a long moment, then he catches Sam by the elbow and yanks him in until he can wrap both of his arms tight around his back. He’s trembling lightly as Sam slides his hands up Dean’s shoulders in return, tremors so slight that anyone who didn’t know him as well wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference. Sam rests his cheek against Dean’s head and wonders if his brother’s current distress is about just having had to literally _decapitate_ one of his only friends or if it’s more the sheer terror of what he knows he’ll have to do to Sam if they can’t find a cure in time. Sam’s pretty sure what the answer is, and it makes him feel like he’s just swallowed a heap of rocks.

He glances at Benny’s projected wall clock over his brother’s head and winces at the blood-red numerals. It’s set to Bramic, so Sam does a few, quick mental calculations. Subtracts a few hours. Changes it to Earth time. Lines it up against the ever-ticking stopwatch in his own head.

T-minus thirty-three hours and counting.

 


	4. Busting Up My Brains for the Words

Dean pushes his half-eaten meal around with a fork, watching as the rice slowly crumbles apart to get soaked up by the small puddle of soy sauce pooled in the center of his plate. They’d picked up some lunch on the way back from Benny’s hideout, both of them too exhausted and covered in sweat and grime— _and blood_ —to risk a sit-down meal. Even at some of the more shady establishments littered around the edges of the Outer Cluster. Dean pokes at his fish again with the tines of his fork, trying to ignore the way Sam’s eyes keep catching on the dark pair of sunglasses sitting across from them on the kitchen table. The only vestige of Benny that Dean’s got left. 

His brother had offered to bury them alongside the desmodus’s head, but it was an empty gesture and they both knew it. Practicality always trumped sentiment in their line of work and Benny had no use for them six feet under—and Sam needed a way to hide his slowly-worsening eyes. So, they’d palmed them before dealing with the rest of Benny’s remains. Well, before _Sam_ dealt with the rest of Benny’s remains, anyway. Dean had been far too busy smashing his knuckles against the creaking, rusted hull of one of the wrecked ships and trying not to lose it to help his brother toss the rest of Benny’s corpse into the swamp. The crocs—or whatever they were—would take care of most of the evidence, but it was better to bury the head completely than risk a piece turning up later on. It doesn’t take much for a retinal scan nowadays.

Dean forcefully blinks away the grim memories of their afternoon and glances down at his sushi (it’s Zystan river eel technically—no way you can get actual tuna from Earth this far out—but it tastes similar enough), then shoves his plate away with a small sigh. Funny how his little brother’s impending doom seems to have sapped most of his appetite. He flicks his gaze over to Sam, but the guy seems to still be pretty invested in his weirdo alien crap, given the way he’s hunched over his Styrofoam cup of grass porridge from the health food place two systems over. 

Sam finally catches him staring and lifts an eyebrow. “What?” he asks tiredly. “You want some?”

Dean lets out a dismissive snort and leans back in his chair, pushing away from the small table. “I’ll stick with actual _Earth_ food, thanks.”

“It’s good for you,” Sam lectures by rote, gesturing at him with his plastic spoon. “A little health food once in a while wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

They’ve had this exact same argument so many times, Dean could probably act out both of their parts perfectly. He rolls his eyes instead. “Nothing that smells like that is good for you.”

“You’re gonna need a heart transplant by forty, the way you eat.”

“And I’m pretty sure your taste buds are defective, the way _you_ eat,” Dean counters back. He spins his fork on the table, gradually calming as they fall into their familiar patterns. “C’mon, Sammy. Live a little.”

Sam pauses for an awkward second, then breaks script, clenching his left hand around the plastic frame of Benny’s sunglasses. “You saying I should go all-out for my last meal?” he asks tightly. “Surf and turf maybe?”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Sam,” he spits. “That is not your fucking last meal, okay? And if it was, I’d probably end up killing myself too. Just out of sheer sympathy.” Dean willfully ignores his brother’s dramatics and tries to force them back onto even ground—wildly grasping for even a _hint_ of normalcy in the shitshow that has become their lives. “And by the way, since when is sushi not healthy?” he asks, trying for teasing. His voice comes out a little too brittle to be genuine, but Sam seems to take the attempted olive branch for what it is.

His brother’s shoulders relax just the slightest bit as he lets go of the glasses, his hand slipping back across the table to drop into his lap. “When it’s absolutely drenched in soy sauce?” Sam offers, mouth curling into a weak approximation of a smile. “If that fish was still alive, it would be swimming right now.”

Dean lets out an amused breath and spears one of the eel pieces on his fork. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says, high and reedy, because that’s probably what eels would sound like if they could talk. “I’m delicious.” He wiggles the dead fish in a shoddy imitation of swimming, then zig-zags it up to his brother’s lips. “Open up for the spaceship.”

Sam barks out a reluctant laugh and shoves Dean’s wrist away. “I’m seriously concerned about your brain, man.” He pushes away from the table to toss his mostly empty cup into the incinerator. “We should probably have Cas check you for damage,” he adds over his shoulder, waiting by the disposal until the flames have died down enough for the mechanism to aperture shut again. Then he sucks in a deliberate breath and turns around. Sam takes a couple of awkward steps back toward the table, and Dean almost rolls his eyes at the familiarity. Sam’s got that typical, stubborn set to his jaw that he always gets whenever he’s trying too hard to be casual. He reaches out a hand to stiffly pat at Dean’s shoulder, and Dean quickly takes pity on his brother—intercepting the embarrassing attempt at consolation (or affection or whatever the hell the stilted gesture is supposed to be) and wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrist instead, squeezing gently until he coaxes out a semblance of a smile.

“If this is you trying to get at my sushi,” he says slowly, “then you’re gonna have to try a whole lot harder than that.”

Sam’s face twitches a bit, a play of emotions wrestling for dominance until his expression finally settles on tired resignation. His hand curls a little in Dean’s grip and he takes a swing at lighthearted. “You caught me,” he says softly. “Just trying to save you from the excessive sodium intake.” More of the blood vessels in his eyes have ruptured by now. Too many thin, jagged streaks of red have started to snake their way out from the inner corners to reach for his irises. Dean’s heart clenches in his chest as their gazes lock, but he doesn’t let even a hint of apprehension leak into his voice.

“Looks like you’re gonna have to stick around then,” Dean says, quiet, but firm. As immovable as an iron rail. “To save me from the salt and all,” he adds after another moment. It isn’t a request.

Sam’s breath hitches at the subtle demand, his posture drooping a little under Dean’s gaze, but he doesn’t say a thing. The mournful shadow over his eyes does all of the talking for him. He opens his mouth to start something—a plea for Dean to be more realistic maybe—but he just ends up letting out a small sigh instead, clicking his teeth shut again without a word. Sam tosses him a strained smile and tightens his hand around the fingers he can reach, then he silently slips away from Dean’s hold, grabbing Benny’s sunglasses as he passes by the table on his way out of the kitchen.

The automatic doors whoosh shut on the broad span of his brother’s retreating back, and Dean drops his head into his fists the instant he’s alone, clawing his fingers into his hairline as he tries to drag his jagged edges back together—a drowning man clinging to a slowly sinking raft as the wood splinters apart underneath his very hands. He shoves himself away from the table and flings the remains of his lunch into the incinerator, plate and all. The sound of their so-called ‘unbreakable’ dishes popping and shattering under the blistering heat of the flames does make him feel a tiny bit better, but it’s not enough. There’s not enough air in here. He can’t breathe. Can’t seem to pull in any oxygen at all. Dean’s chest tightens as his lungs burn, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He slams his eyelids shut before any can slip free. Doesn’t allow them to fall. _Pull it the fuck together, asshole! This ain’t about you right now. It’s about Sam. Falling apart like a little **bitch** means you’re no good to anyone. You’re no good to anyone like this. You’re no fucking good to **anyone**. _ Dean slams the heel of his palm against the metal counter of the sink, and then he does it again, and again. Lets the sharp corner dig into the meat of his hand. Lets the harsh bite of steel bring him back to center.  _One more breath. C’mon, you fucking baby. You can do it. One more deep breath and then you get the fuck out there and handle this shit like a goddamn hunter._  Dean sucks a ragged inhale past his knotted throat, clamping his fingers around the edge of the sink until his knuckles start to ache, and then finally gasps as his lungs spasm at the needed air. He keeps pulling in uneven, panting gulps of oxygen until the stinging in his chest gradually abates and he can breathe again. _There you go, motherfucker_. 

“There you go,” Dean repeats out loud, rasping the words into the empty room. He slowly brings his shaking hands up, scraping his rough palms across his face. Swipes the tears from his lashes until his fingers come back dry. Until any hint of weakness is gone. Dean digs the points of his teeth into the soft flesh of his tongue and lets the pain clear his head. He stands up straight, cracks his neck, and then turns around to face the hallway, striding past the automatic doors and following his brother back out into the main room.

Sam is planted in the middle of the sofa, fiddling with the sunglasses in his lap as Cas speaks to him in calm, hushed tones. Dean silently steps around the two of them, leans over the backrest of the couch, and then twists both of his hands through Sam’s hair without a word. He tightens his fingers in his brother’s tangled strands and bends down to rest his face against the back of Sam’s head, taking another moment to just breathe. Sam’s hair smells like sweat and sex and the lingering grass-and-compost scent of the unending bayous they’d hiked through earlier, but his brother doesn’t move away, holding perfectly still as he allows Dean whatever he needs. Dean stays where he is for a few more greedy seconds, resting heavily against Sam, and then he pulls away again, just as abruptly as he’d come in. He claps a tired hand to Cas’s shoulder and leaves his crewmates to their earlier conversation, heading directly for the com-link on the other side of the room.

The line rings for too long the first time, cutting out to voicemail before Bobby can get to the receiver. Dean severs the connection and tries again before the outgoing message can even finish. The second time, it only rings twice.

“What?” Bobby’s gruff voice snaps at him, muted under the volume control that Dean has twisted to low. He sounds exhausted. Probably slept about as much as Dean has since this whole thing started. “In case you’re wondering,” Bobby continues sarcastically, “time-sensitive research tends to go a lot faster when you boys aren’t calling me every time you get your tails jerked in a knot.”

“I need anything you’ve got,” Dean interrupts tonelessly. “I mean, don’t hold back on any eureka moments in the near future or whatever, but…” His throat feels too dry. It’s hard to swallow. “I need what you’ve got now, Bobby. Something.” Dean rubs his fingers over his burning eyes and lets out a broken sigh. “ _Anything_.”

There’s a noticeable pause. “How bad’s he gotten?” Bobby asks quietly.

“His eyes are red. Not too bad yet, but it’s starting.” Dean clenches his nails into his palms, keeps his focus on the perforated receiver and not on his brother across the room. Fights against the mental image of Sam’s bleeding stare, even though he knows it’s been permanently burned onto the back of his eyelids. “Benny’s dead, by the way,” he adds bluntly. “He’d been infected too. Sam and I had to—” Dean breaks off. Re-words. “I had to take care of it.”

“…Sorry to hear that,” the older man says after an awkward moment. 

Nobody much cared for Benny. No one knew him. No one but Dean—and Cas, he guesses. Sort of. And now, he doesn’t even exist at all. His earthly remains wiped clean off the record. There’s absolutely no trace of Benny Lafitte left in the entire universe other than a couple of blood-soaked sleeves on a shirt that Dean already tossed into the incinerator and a pair of cheap, tinted sunglasses that he’ll eventually be forced to slip off of Sam’s corpse as well. At least Dean won’t have to live with them for too long. He’ll make sure of that.  Dean chuckles a little bitterly at the morbid thought. Those fucking sunglasses. They’ll be a memento mori that’ll outlast all three of them. Maybe Cas will be able to find some use for them afterwards. 

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair and does his best not to fall asleep right where he’s sitting. How long has he been up by now? Two days? “Please, Bobby,” he begs quietly. “I’ll take any lead you’ve got. No matter how flimsy. Just give me something to work with, man.”

There’s a long, reluctant sigh from the other end of the line. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t like a lot of things.”

Another drawn-out moment of silence. “…Bela Talbot,” he says eventually.

Dean scoffs at the unexpected name. “Bela? As in snooty, over-glorified pawn shop owner Bela?”

Bobby clears his throat, and then there’s the sound of something heavy being scraped across flat metal. Books, probably. Which means that their situation is more dire than Dean had even guessed. Bobby wouldn’t expend the effort of scrounging around his paper library unless he were really grasping at straws. “Dusty heirlooms and overpriced knick-knacks ain’t the only thing she trades in, kid. Hearsay is Bela’s an information broker. And a damn good one at that. At least, according to certain channels, that is.”

“Yeah?” Dean snits. “And what channels would those be? Poncy Bitch Monthly?”

He can practically hear the other man’s eye roll from half a universe away. “Try every backdoor business and black market trading post from here to the Carina Nebula,” he drawls. “Trust me, Dean. If you want answers, more likely than not, she’s the one that’s got ‘em.”

“Great,” Dean gripes. “So my options are either to let my brother die a horrible, painful death or to spend one evening with the succubus of Avon.” He grinds his teeth together so hard, Bobby can probably hear him over the line. “How ever will I choose?”

Bobby lets out an indulgent huff at his overdramatics. “Just keep an eye on your chits, kid.  _Literally_. You give her half a chance, she’ll pop your friggin’ retinas out of your head.” He snorts under his breath. “Probably get a decent price for ‘em too.”

“Yeah, I know, Bobby.” Dean brings his thumb up to hover over the off switch. “Okay. We’ll head over there right now, give Bela the third degree.”

“Alright,” Bobby mutters. “I’ll keep chugging away at this in the meantime. And tell that brother of yours to keep his fool eyes covered. No reason to give the locals an extra excuse to panic if you don’t need to.”

An amused sound gets lodged in the back of Dean’s throat. “Sure thing,” he says. “Thanks.” Then he flicks the switch, cutting off the connection before Bobby can reply.

A quick glance at the other side of the room brings him face-to-face with his brother’s accusatory stare, Sam’s eyes fixed directly on his own. Which means that he’s probably been listening in the entire time. Cas, at least, is doing his best to _pretend_ that he wasn’t blatantly eavesdropping on Dean’s conversation just a few seconds ago, his gaze guiltily flicking over the walls of the ship as he focuses on a particularly riveting piece of paneling. Ah, well. So much for subtlety. It really isn’t his best quality anyway.  

Dean shrugs and decides to steer into the skid, throwing on a wide grin that he doesn’t really feel. “So, whaddya think, Sammy?” he asks cheerfully. “Road trip?” 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Cordelia 7, a small desert planetoid made almost entirely out of sand and broken dreams, has been Bela Talbot’s main base of operations for as long as Dean has known the soulless harpy. It’s the smallest planet in the entire Avon System, but with the lesser square footage comes lax regulations and practically zero bureaucratic oversight—making it the perfect place for anyone looking to pick up some duty-free, black market swag on the down low. He and Sam have even swung through a few times themselves, loading up on the odd weapon or hard-to-find antiquity. Bela usually gives them their own personal Winchester discount too—only charging them double what the needed items are worth, instead of triple. It’s basically a step up from her ‘mortal enemies’ rate, but they’re forced to take what they can get. Some of the rarer ion clips for their blasters can’t be found anywhere else in the universe. Just because Bela Talbot happens to be a world-class bitch, doesn’t mean she isn’t a good businessman. Or _woman_ , whatever.

The larger of Cordelia’s two suns is just starting to set by the time they make it planetside, throwing Dean’s shadow out in front of him and stretching his image long and distorted across the sand. A hot gust of wind comes sweeping past them as they trudge up to Bela’s shop, carrying the familiar scent of dried herbs with it. It always smells like being suffocated with tarragon whenever they’re here. Unless the planetoid’s being hit with one of its ever-frequent dry storms—then it smells like tarragon _and_ ozone. But luckily, they seem to have avoided the worst of the inclement weather at the moment. Too late in the day maybe.

Sam nudges at his arm, rousing Dean from where he’d been standing around like a dope and squinting up at the sky, and they continue up the path into the main city. Buildings of smooth crystal jut up over the horizon, the bright glare almost jarring against the pinkish, rust-colored cast to the sand below. Flat plains of the stuff stretch out in every direction around them and Dean has to keep his eyes focused on the skyline in the distance to avoid vertigo. Even the fading light bounces brilliantly off the rounded spires, the reflected shine a washed-out, sun-bleached blue that gleams across the duller gray-pink of the evening sky. 

He spares a glance at his brother, who's completely unaffected by the blinding sunset thanks to the dark glasses resting over his temples, and for a brief moment, Dean almost feels envious of Sam’s eye thing. Not for long though. Not enough to say anything out loud. He considers making a joke for about half a second—something along the lines of _“only douchebags wearing sunglasses at night”_ —but in the dimming light like this, the thick, dark lenses just make Sam look like he’s blind. The resemblance will get even stronger once it’s fully dark. Dean swallows back acid at the stray thought and keeps his mouth shut. He does make sure to swing his arms a little wider as he walks though, lets the backs of his fingers just barely graze his brother’s on every other step. It makes Sam smile.

They get over to Bela’s place fairly quick, striding through the open doorway like they’ve been here a thousand times before. Clumps of fine, powdery dust cling to the soles of their boots, leaving pinkish footprints against the otherwise spotless floor of the showroom, and Dean can’t help but feel pleasantly smug about the fact that she’ll have to personally clean that up after they leave. Just in case any higher-profile customers decide to stop by later on. The dry, apothecary-esque scent from outside doesn’t follow them in the way the sand does, the fresh air quickly smothered by the competing fragrances of the baubles and trinkets stacked up as high as physically possible in each corner. The tilting furniture and assorted curios almost graze the heavy cluster of ornate chandeliers hanging from the room’s low ceiling. It smells like wood in here— _real_ wood—and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the thick, dark counter at the front of the shop is genuine mahogany. He’s never seen an actual Earth tree before, outside of old pictures, but if anyone could manage to wrangle something that impossibly rare, it _would_ be the Wicked Bitch of the West. Dean hums to himself at the thought. If the magic shop from the seventh Gremlins remake had a baby with the warehouse from the first Raiders, it would probably look a little something like this place. 

Bela is busying herself with archiving the inventory as they step up to the counter, but she doesn’t look up until Sam clears his throat. It’s a power play. She’d clearly noticed them the second they walked in.

She cuts her sharp eyes over to them after another half second of intentional stalling, then grants them a curtailed smile. “Well, what have we here?” Bela asks sedately, tongue gliding over the clipped syllables native to the Avon system. “The Winchester boys, in the flesh. My, what a _treat_.” She snaps the ‘t’, insincere grin curling up at the edges of her tastefully-colored lips. Bela holds Dean’s stare for a long time, then finally drags her gaze away from eying him like a rare first-edition. Her eyes catch on his brother before they can fully slide past, and she pauses, taking in his unexpected appearance. “New look, Sam?” she teases coolly. “I’d make a song reference, but low-hanging fruit and all that.”

“We need info,” Dean interrupts brusquely, trying to pull her attention away from his brother. The less Bela finds out about their current predicament, the better. Even an _inkling_ of an impending suspicion would be the perfect way for them to lose any possible leverage at all. They’ve got a plan and they’re sticking to it. In and out. Get the information, then shag ass. As painlessly as possible. Dean stretches his own lips into a strained smile and crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look as imposing as he can. “And we’re on a tight schedule, so you _not_ acting like a total bitch would be super helpful.”

Bela laughs at his insult—a light, twittering sound, like the chirping of small birds. It’s just as carefully constructed as the rest of her mannerisms. She’d be equally as likely to harpoon and roast those same birds herself if she thought she could make a quick buck out of the deal. “My, my,” Bela coos, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bunk today.” She waits for him to take the bait, then rolls her eyes at his less-than-satisfactory reaction. “Oh, Dean, don’t pout. It isn’t befitting.”

“Like I said earlier,” Dean growls, ignoring her playful taunting entirely. “We need some info about Enoch Enterprises, and you’re gonna pony up.”

Bela just looks mildly amused. “And why is that?”

“Because we know what you do for a living, Bela,” Sam says flatly.

She bats her eyelashes at him in response, the perfect picture of demure innocence. Like a whore trying to pass for a nun. “Of course you do,” Bela says lightly. “I procure unique items for a select clientele.”

Dean makes an ugly snorting noise, leaning in over the counter until she’s forced to shift back slightly. Lose some ground. “What my brother means is, we know what you _really_ do for a living,” he says lowly, just the slightest hint of a warning creeping into his tone. Dean slowly reaches over to tap at her vocation broach—the magpie symbol depictive of merchants. “You see, a little birdie may have told me that _this_ little birdie is a big, fat lie.”

Bela regards him for a moment, composed and calculating, then tilts her head in the barest suggestion of tacit admission. “…Suppose I _did_ handle some extra-curricular endeavors. Hypothetically speaking, of course,” she adds in a rush. “Well, it wouldn’t exactly be _legal_ now, would it? Not something I could go about advertising, that line of work. And if I _were_ in the information business,” she purrs darkly, “I would assume that my regulars would appreciate a bit of discretion.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “You saying I can’t appreciate discretion?”

“Oh, sweetie. It isn’t exactly putting words in my mouth if I’ve already said them. Do try and keep up.”

Sam huffs out an amused breath from over his right shoulder, and Dean clenches his jaw as he tries to ignore his brother’s blatant betrayal. “I can be discreet,” he grits through his teeth.

Bela lets out a very unladylike snort. “ _Please_ ,” she says condescendingly. “You and your brother are practically a walking billboard of violence and vice.” She wraps her perfectly manicured fingers around the long sleeves of her dress and juts out a hip. “Tell me, Dean,” she goads him smoothly. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just smuggling the contents of a small liquor store in your trousers?”

“What if I said ‘both’?” he growls, pulling out his blaster to rest against her precious genuine mahogany countertop. He keeps one finger on the trigger as he fixes her in his sights—the threat clear. “Feeling chatty yet?”

Bela sighs dramatically, looking rather bored with the whole exchange. “You’re not going to shoot me, Dean. So you might as well put the toy away before Daddy comes home and sees it.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself for a broad with a muzzle pointed at her chest.”

She tosses an imploring gaze toward Sam, like she’s looking for someone to commiserate with over how insufferably annoying Dean is being.  _Good luck with that, lady. Sammy’s on **my** side_. Bela hesitates a bit at Sam’s steely rebuff—the opaque glasses sure don’t hurt when it comes to establishing an imposing front—then reluctantly shifts her attention back to him again. “Look, I didn’t say I _wouldn’t_ deal, now did I? I’m just letting you know that putting me in your crosshairs isn’t exactly the way to go about arranging a mutually beneficial discussion.” Bela smooths out the imaginary wrinkles from the front of her immaculate dress, then calmly plucks a stray thread from the teal fabric like she doesn’t have a ray gun aimed directly at her heart. “Honestly, it’s like dealing with children,” she mutters to herself. “Let me tell you a little something about me, boys,” she directs toward the both of them, voice low and honeyed, like she _is_ talking to preschoolers. “I don’t respond well to threats. But if you make me an offer? Then I think you’ll find me _highly_ cooperative.”

He shares a brief glance with Sam. _Think it’s worth it?_  His brother’s answering nod is almost imperceptible. “I’ve got thirteen hundred chits in my account, right now,” Dean says assuredly, moving to tuck his gun back in its holster. He holds firm for a moment, meeting her stare evenly, but quickly ends up caving at Bela’s icy expression of indifference. “Might be able to scrounge up another seven if you give me a day or so,” he adds grudgingly.

“Two grand?” Bela scoffs incredulously. “I don’t get out of bed for two grand.”

“Well, fine,” he snarls. “Let me just call my _banker_.”

“Mind your blood pressure,” she says crisply. Then her lips slowly curve into an indulgent smile, and Dean knows he’s missed something vital. Like they’re in a coal mine and he’s the canary. “I don’t want your money, boys,” Bela says— _oh_ , so generously. “I’m simply talking tit for tat.”

“Not sure that’s legal in public like this,” he tosses back sardonically. It’s purely sarcastic. He wouldn’t fuck Bela with a _borrowed_ dick. He might’ve been tempted once, way back when, but that was before he’d come to realize that she’s the single most infuriating person that he’s ever had the misfortune of dealing with.

“I mean _information_ , you cretin.  _Quid pro quo_.” She shrugs coolly, but genuine excitement is tugging at the edges of her carefully constructed apathy. “If there’s some vital piece of intelligence that you need to know so badly, then of course I’ll hand it over. As long as you answer one of _my_ questions in return.” Bela’s eyes flash greedily—check and _mate_. It’s this, right here, that she’s actually been angling for all along. The rest of it was just an impressively convincing smokescreen. “Simple, yeah?” she prods insistently.

Dean holds his ground with every inch of stubbornness that he can scrape together, unwilling to give Bela what she wants just on sheer principle, but Sam beats him to the punch. “Deal,” he says firmly, but the commanding effect is ruined when he has to clear his throat as he fights back a slight cough. “We’ll tell you anything we know.” And then Dean starts to feel the icy fingers of shame begin to crawl down his back at the guilt-inducing reminder. He’d allowed himself to get caught up in the squabble—in his distaste for Bela (and maybe even the slightly masochistic enjoyment of their sparring). He’d forgotten what was at stake here, just for a moment. He’d forgotten that any price she could possibly ask for would be worth the cost. That he’d be willing to slice off his own head and serve it up to the bitch on a silver freaking platter if it meant that he had even the _slightest_ chance of keeping Sam safe. He lets himself boil in his own self-loathing for another few seconds, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice, taking his earlier silence for a bargaining tactic. As if Dean was just using it to get Bela right where they wanted her. He’s gonna take the truth to his fucking grave.

“What do you want to know?” Dean asks, scrambling to get back on the right side of the story.

Bela chuckles at the serious nature of his tone. “Don’t look so grim, boys,” she scolds lightheartedly. “You’ll get frown lines, and wouldn’t that be a shame?” Neither of them reacts to her teasing in the slightest, so she lets out a put-upon sigh. “Oh, lighten up. Look, I’ll even stick to the topic at hand.” She rests her elbows on the counter and grins up at them. “Since we’re speaking of Enoch Enterprises,” Bela enunciates with intentional melodrama. “Rumours around the water cooler say that this _Anna_ droid isn’t the only angel to have gone off the reservation, as it were. And the rumours _also_ say that you two might know a little something about that.” 

“And who _is_ this extremely informed Samaritan, exactly?” Sam asks darkly.

Bela just holds her grin. “Is it true? Is there another Enochian angel in the wind?”

Dean takes a deep breath, measuring his answer for a few silent minutes—a slim chance to save Sam weighed against Cas’s certain anonymity. “Yes,” he says, after a tense moment.

“ _Unbelievable_.” Bela’s expression lights up like she’s won the lottery—or, more likely, like she’s tricked some poor sap out of _his_ rightly-earned winnings. “Do you know where it is?” she asks excitedly. “Its name? How did it escape Enoch’s radar?”

“…Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Dean drawls smugly, enjoying the _crap_ out of having the upper hand for once. “The deal was for one question only.”

Bela’s face goes instantly, bloodlessly white. “Are you having a laugh?” she bites out sharply. “You’re seriously fine-printing me?”

“Mind your blood pressure,” Sam snipes.

Dean practically preens at the dumbfounded look on Bela’s face. He’s gonna lock that one away in his memory bank for a long time. He’ll make sure and pull it out anytime he needs a good laugh. Dean does take a second to wonder if he can get away with sneaking a quick cybernetic snapshot for posterity, but decides against pushing his luck.

Bela swallows a few times, her mouth twitching up into a sneer like the taste of defeat is physically unpalatable. “What is it that you need to know?” she forces out. At least she’s holding up her end of the bargain. She may be a truly awful person, but it’s nice to know that she keeps her promises.

Sam clears his throat again, stepping up beside where Dean is leaning against the counter. “ _Hypothetically_ speaking,” he starts, adamantly emphasizing the theoretical nature of his words. “If a corporation as influential as Enoch were ever to become involved in some sort of… _illegal_ activity—” he twirls his wrist contemplatively, like he’s pulling an example out of the air, “—let’s just say ‘biological warfare’, for argument’s sake. Would there be a way for you to contact someone on the inside? Someone who could reverse-engineer a vaccine maybe?” Sam falters at Bela’s silent consideration, loses a little steam as his speech peters out. “Y’know…hypothetically,” he mumbles again.

Bela just raises a perfect eyebrow. “You’re referring to Croatoan, I assume?”

“Wait, you know about Croatoan?” Dean asks, more skeptical than shocked. “About _Enoch?”_

She tosses him a nonchalant shrug. “There’s been whispers. And I am _good_ at my job.”

“So, is there then?” Sam asks hopefully. “Some way to create an antigen?”

Bela darts her gaze over Sam’s sunglasses for another pensive moment, then turns back to Dean. “Carver Edlund.”

“ _Gesundheit_.”

She rolls her eyes at his deliberate obtuseness. Apparently a sense of humor is not required as part of the information broker résumé. “It’s the _nom de plume_ of the man you’re looking for,” Bela explains exasperatedly. “Not sure what he went by before he fell off the grid, but I’m sure you can ask him at your little tea party.” She sniffs dismissively and turns her attention back to her archiving, stylus scritching lightly against the screen of her record book. “If you want to know about Enoch’s seedy underbelly, Edlund is the man to see.”

Dean hums thoughtfully, rocking back on his heels. “How’s _that_ for a lead?” he tosses over to Sam. “So, where does this mysterious Carver Edlund happen to live anyway?” That one is directed at the swindler behind the counter.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Bela replies snippily. “The deal was for one question only.”

Sam snorts behind his shoulder—clearly amused by the turnabout—but Dean just kind of feels like strangling the woman. He glares stubbornly for another few seconds, trying to wait her out, but Bela’s clearly in this one for the long haul. “Thanks for all your help,” he reluctantly grits through clenched teeth, but she just continues ignoring him, eyes unwaveringly glued to her cataloguing or whatever. Sam eventually pulls at his arm to prod him into moving, and they leave through the same open doorway they came in, stepping back out into the herbal aroma of the evening air.

Both suns are well under the horizon by now, Cordelia’s seven moons all lit up and sprinkled out across the darkness of the maroon sky. “Okay, so this is _something_ at least,” Sam says a little too fast, cautiously optimistic. His boot heels kick up cooling puffs of sand as he tugs Dean alongside him back out into the desert. “All we gotta do is look up this Edlund guy and—who knows, Dean? This might actually lead to a real answer.” He taps on his cybernetics, one hand still clutched around Dean’s sleeve as he drags him along, and states the command into the census app. His pop-up starts whirring as it scrolls through the database, and Sam turns to pin him with a blinding grin—dimples and everything.

“I told you,” Dean can’t help but gush. He uses his free hand to deliver a playful punch to his brother’s upper arm. “I fucking _told_ you, man!”

Sam laughs as he continues to make his way across the sand backwards, beaming under the ruddy light of the gleaming moons. “Screw Enoch,” he says emphatically. “Stupid assholes thinking they can get one over on us.”

“Screw them right in the face,” Dean chimes in agreement. He lets out a loud _whoop_ that rings out across the flat plains, and then gives in to the desire to do a little hop-skip, feet twirling as he brings the younger man along for the ride. Sam laughs again at his enthusiasm, having no choice but to keep on clinging to his jacket if he doesn’t want to get thrown off—until Dean suddenly stops short, letting the halted momentum of the movement force his brother back into his arms. “Because _who_ are we?” he prompts, yanking Sam down by the collar of his vest.

“We’re the Winchesters,” Sam says under his breath, flushed and panting, as he’s tugged down to Dean’s level. He looks like everything Dean’s ever dreamed of.

A barren desert might not be the most romantic setting either of them can think up, but it’s about as private as you can get. And that goes a long way in Dean’s book. He does a quick double-check to make sure they’re actually alone, then reaches up to silently slip the sunglasses off of his brother’s face. “We’re the fucking Winchesters,” he repeats, barely a whisper, and surges up to catch Sam’s lips with his own.

His brother immediately lunges down against him, digging his fingers into the meat of Dean’s shoulders and chasing after his tongue like it owes him money. Dean moans at the hot, desperate slide of Sam’s lips against his and tightens his grip around the glasses in his hand until the plastic frame squeaks. Sam kisses him stupid, growling as he fucks into his mouth, and only breaks away when he’s forced to pull back for air—all mussed hair and perfectly shining teeth.

The eye thing is getting noticeably worse, the inner corners of his whites fully flooded with blood now as the virus spreads. A tangle of thin capillaries reach out to knit themselves all around the darker curve of his irises and it gives him a wild, chaotic look. They don’t have much time left. It will be enough. Dean will make sure that it’s enough. 

He stretches up to leave a soft press of his lips to each one of Sam’s eyelids, then slips the glasses back into place. “So,” he starts, “where to, darlin’?”

Sam’s app pings and he grins at Dean behind the dark lenses. “I dunno,” he says cheekily, glancing down at the read-out. “How does Skaphus sound to you?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They make it to Skaphus in only a few hours—Dean thinks he might have shaved a few decimal points off the laws of physics getting here as fast as they did—and they zip through the access port the second they’re cleared for entry, rear end fishtailing a bit as they make their way under the radiation shielding. His Baby’s gonna need one hell of another tune-up after this, the way he’s riding her, and Dean pats the side of the dashboard in a silent apology.

The entire Osscade Galaxy is swimming in a murky layer of poisonous gases. Only a few of the planets here are actually habitable—and even that was dependent on years and years of lobbyists finally convincing local congress to spit up enough chits to construct a few silica domes over the larger cities. The large population of native vetalas get along just fine—the poisonous atmosphere having no damaging effect on their scaled lungs at all—but with the upsurge of organic immigration in the last couple centuries, a few compromises needed to be made. It’s still some of the cheapest living you can find in the Inner colonies, and Dean nervously wonders how much of that is due to the likelihood of possible radiation leaks. They pull into the central (and only) port of Kripke’s Hollow, the run-down section of ghetto where this Edlund guy is supposed to live, and head for the main row of crumbling apartments all crammed together at the edge of downtown, picking their way through the trash-lined streets. It’s almost as dark as space itself inside the city, the thick atmosphere casting a sickly green tinge over the few stars that manage to peek through the heavy haze. Dense swathes of gas slowly swirl through the sky above them, dissipating into mist whenever they hit the edge of the clear, plastic barriers, and Dean can’t help himself from trying to discreetly shield his crotch from the possible toxins.

Sam glances down at the movement, catching Dean’s fingers hovering protectively over his fly, then lets out a small chuckle. It quickly turns into another worrisome cough, but his brother smiles at him once he can speak again. “That’s not gonna help,” he says, warmly condescending.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Dean mutters in retaliation, but grudgingly lowers his hand back down to his side.

Edlund’s specific apartment was unlisted in the database, so their only hope is to search through all the units on foot until they stumble across someone who might be able to help them. And it takes another couple of hours they don’t have of banging on random doors before a helpful neighbor finally admits to even having _heard_ of their mystery informant. Guess ‘census takers’ doesn’t pull as much weight as a cover as it used to back when they canvased with Dad. Although, that might’ve just been John. One look at their father’s _serious business_  face, and civilians would be lining up around the block to air all of their neighbors’ dirty laundry for them. Maybe it was the space marine thing.

The elderly vetala at the door informs them that Mr. Edlund rents the room two floors above her—and also makes sure to let them in on the gossip about a few of his less-desirable habits. “I think the poor dear has a _problem_ ,” she quietly hisses through her fangs. She silently mimes the tilt of a bottle, then gives them a conspiratorial look. “You know the kind I mean.” The vetala glances to the side, then loudly whispers, “ _Drinking_ ,” just in case they didn’t catch her drift the first time. “I’m not sure what he did before he came here, but he must have had a hard time of it. You can tell from the eyes. They never quite settle right—too jumpy.” She clicks her long tongue and holds up a hand to mitigate her earlier statement. “Wonderful neighbor though. Always makes sure to collect my deliveries for me when I go to visit my grandchildren. Such a sweet man.”

They extract themselves as painlessly as possible, politely turning down the woman’s offer for some astringent tea, and finally make it to the apartment they’ve been looking for, the last few hours. Sam takes a deep breath, Dean cracks his knuckles, and they each reach out a fist to firmly knock at the man’s door.

There’s a sound of something heavy being dropped, followed by a faint curse, and then a long series of metallic clacking as the person inside unlatches a seemingly unending succession of locks. After one last echoing click, the door slowly creaks open to reveal the face of a rather unimpressive, milquetoast-looking man. There’s a silver chain still bolting the door to the frame, and the guy cautiously peers up at them from behind the thin slit of an opening. “Can I help you?” he croaks nervously. The man seems to be somewhere in his early forties, with red-rimmed eyes and a nervous disposition. And his downstairs neighbor was probably right about the whole drinking thing. Dean can recognize the shakes when he sees them. His dull, flyaway hair wildly sticks up from his head in every direction like it hasn’t been washed in a while, but it’s surprisingly at odds with the neat line of his closely-trimmed beard.

“You Carver Edlund?” Dean asks lowly.

Edlund flinches at the name. “M-maybe,” he stutters, then flits his eyes back and forth between the two of them. “Why?”

“We have a few questions for you,” Sam adds, a little less threatening—his ‘good cop’ in full swing.

“What’s with the sunglasses?” Edlund asks cautiously, his gaze skimming over Sam’s face. “Wait—  _Oh, god_. Is this some kind of ‘hood and unmarked van’ thing? Did Phil send you?” He quails and throws his hands up defensively. “’Cause I _have_ his money, okay? It’s just tied up in a couple of investments right now. I can explain the whole thing.” Dean takes a step forward to cut off the babbling, and Edlund plasters himself back against the doorframe. “Please— _wait!_  Please don’t hurt me. I-I think I’ve got some boxed wine in the house. You want that? You guys can take that and a few appliances and then you don’t have to tell your boss anything about this, okay?”

“Calm down, crazy,” Dean orders. “We don’t work for anyone.”

“Look, we were sent here by Bela,” Sam says reassuringly.

Edlund blinks. “Bela?” he says distractedly, a dreamy look settling over his features as he registers the name. “Wait.” He shakes his head, then snaps himself out of it. “Bela sent you? As in Bela _Talbot?”_

“No,” Dean says dryly. “ _Legosi_. He wanted to know if you were a fan.”

Sam slips his hands into his pockets and affects a nonthreatening slouch, probably trying to come off like he _isn’t_ a terrifying 6’5 in his boots. “She said you might have some information that we need.”

“No,” Edlund says firmly. “No way. I don’t have any information about anything. I’m a nobody.” He shifts back inside his apartment and struggles a little, trying to shut the door against where Dean’s lodged the toe of his boot. “C’mon,” he whines, pushing fruitlessly against the cheap metal. “I’m just some guy.”

“Look,” Dean growls, “Bela might be an enormous pain in my ass, but if she sent us to you, it’s for a reason. So you gotta know _something_.” He gets a hand around the edge of the door and locks his arm, holding it open easily. “And you’re gonna tell us whatever that is. Got it?” Edlund doesn’t say a word in response. He just shuts his eyes and cowers miserably.

“Do you know anything about Enoch Enterpises?” Sam asks from behind Dean’s shoulder. Nothing but silence. “Or Michael Shurley getting into bed with the cartels?” Nada. He sighs at Edlund’s stubborn whimpering and tries for one last, desperate shot. “Do you know about the angels trying to create their own Heaven?”

Edlund suddenly goes completely still at his brother’s words, then slowly cracks an eye open. “Wait a minute,” he rasps, pale with shock. “How do _you_ know about that?”

All three of them silently stare at each other for a few, stunned seconds, weighing the situation. “The question is,” Dean eventually says, leaning in menacingly. “How do you?”

Edlund takes a shallow, shaky breath, then clumsily attempts to psych himself up before speaking again. “…Because I _invented_ them,” he whispers quietly. He shakes his head in astonishment and reaches a hand up to unlatch the door. “Okay. I think you’d maybe better come inside.” Dean shares a brief, questioning glance with Sam, and then they shadow the trembling Edlund into his apartment.

The place is tiny—barely bigger than a studio—and piles of dirty clothing are strewn around every corner and piece of furniture, accenting the shabby, peeling strips of wallpaper throughout. Empty beer cans, takeout boxes, and a bowl of what appears to be stale pretzels crowd the surface of the room’s small coffee table, and it looks like Edlund hasn’t left the place in weeks. If _ever_. The room reflects the quaint charm of an agoraphobic nutcase. Howard Hughes _chic_. Dean winces as he almost steps in a small damp spot on the cheap carpet, like some small animal has wet itself, and he nervously looks around for pets. The place looks like it could easily be harboring a small army of strays, but the proximity of a half-empty jug of whiskey means it’s probably just an accidental spill. All in all, the apartment mostly reeks of stale B.O. and paranoia.

“Okay, first thing’s first,” Edlund says, grabbing a striped dressing robe from his dingy couch and wrapping it around his shoulders like a security blanket. “My name’s not Carver Edlund.” He gives them a sheepish look as he fiddles with the ties at his waist. “Not really, anyway.”

Dean toes at the spill. “Yeah, Bela mentioned something about a nonaploom.”

“ _Nom de plume_ ,” Sam quietly corrects under his breath.

Dean ignores him. “So, what’s your real name then?”

Edlund nervously picks at his fingernails. “Chuck,” he says meekly.

Sam snorts softly at the unexpected moniker. “Okay, _Chuck_. Why did you say that you invented the angels?” Dean can tell from Sam’s tone of voice that his brother is half expecting the answer to be a deluge of schizophrenic nonsense.

“Because I did.” Chuck lets out a miserable sigh and makes a beeline for the bottle of whiskey. “I’m the one who built them all.”

“Enoch Enterprises built the angels,” Dean says wearily. “That’s grade school stuff, man.”

Chuck gazes up at them with watery, doleful eyes. “I know,” he groans sadly, then he unscrews the bottle cap to take a huge pull of the amber liquid. “I used to be the CEO.”

Sam makes a choking noise from beside him. “I’m sorry, _what?”_ he croaks in disbelief, fighting off another coughing jag. Dean rolls his eyes exhaustedly. Looks like his schizophrenia guess was right on the money after all. “You’re telling us that _you_ were the CEO of _Enoch Enterprises?”_ Sam clarifies. “The universe’s largest body of government?”

“Yeah, no offense, Chuck,” Dean says, gesturing at the squalor around them, “but this really doesn’t look like the digs of a wealthy man.”

Chuck lets out a bitter-sounding laugh, deep in his throat. “Oh, I’m definitely not wealthy. Believe me.” He anxiously shifts on his feet a bit, then reluctantly places his whiskey back on the counter with a heavy clunk. “You want proof?” he asks tiredly, shuffling around the cheaply constructed bar to fiddle with one of the bottom drawers. “I’ve got your friggin’ proof right here.”

Dean and Sam share another quick glance of uncertainty before Chuck comes back around the counter, shoving a messy folder—stuffed to the brim with loose scraps of paper—into his brother’s hands. Sam blinks down at the heavy file, then turns back to Chuck. “Where the hell did you get all this paper?”

“I trade for it,” Chuck says distractedly, heading back for the whiskey like it’s his lifeline. “Can’t sketch on a tablet—too many dangerous types scanning the g-net for that kind of thing. And you can never erase digital info completely.” He hugs the bottle to his chest like it’s a stuffed animal. “This was safer.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at the insane explanation, then flips open the folder and tugs out a few random scraps for a closer inspection. Dean expects his brother to give the stuff a cursory once-over, then politely return the insane scribblings to the madman they belong to—but Sam just gapes at the material in his hands, dropping the mess of papers down onto the couch so he can spread them out more easily as he studies them. “This is—” his brother cuts off, awestruck. “This is _insane_.”

“Yeah, that seems about right,” Dean snarks under his breath.

“ _No_ , Dean,” Sam says. “Not insane like he’s crazy. Insane like he’s a freaking _genius_.”

Dean makes an incredulous face at the proclamation, and Chuck just shrinks down in on himself again. “I don’t like ‘genius’,” he says uncomfortably. “Never liked the term ‘genius’. Way too much pressure. The investors used to call me that and then—” He makes a zipping motion with his free hand. “It was all too easy to blame the failures on me when everyone thought I could just come up with scientific breakthroughs at the drop of a hat.”

Sam grabs a random handful of papers and shoves them in Dean’s face. “Look at these,” he insists—and Dean sighs as he wraps a hand around his brother’s wrist, backing the sketches far enough away that he can see them.

The drawings seem to be scrawled over any loose bit of scrap Chuck could find—ancient receipts and recycled napkins, even the backs of vintage vid posters. The stuff’s all in pencil and ink, blue and black and silver-gray squiggles doodled out over the torn and crinkled sheets. It looks like machine schematics mostly—actuators and gear boxes and the like. But then Dean recognizes a crude depiction of a servo matrix from his own tentative workings on Cas. And then a universal jack for interface adaptors. A more efficient triple output diode for synthetic irises. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers as he skims over the blueprints. “This is…”

“I know, right?” Sam whispers back, just as breathless. “This guy’s the real deal, Dean.”

They both bring their heads back up to gape at Chuck, who’s standing awkward and motionless on the other side of the room. “…Told you?” he says quietly.

“What happened?” Sam asks, letting the sketches drop back onto the fraying couch. “If you were really the CEO of Enoch, then why would you ever leave?”

Chuck blanches at the question. “I didn’t exactly, uh, _leave_ ,” he manages to get out, “ _technically_.” They both just stare at him silently, waiting for an explanation. “Okay, look,” Chuck starts, clinging to the neck of his bottle until his knuckles go white. “I’m not good at the whole ‘in charge’ thing.” He adds the appropriate air quotes and more whiskey goes sloshing to the carpet. “I was just good with robotics. I never meant to invent a scientific _miracle_ or anything. I was just screwing around with some synthetic mechanisms and accidentally came up with the prototype for perfect organic mimicry.”

“… _Accidentally?”_ Sam coughs in disbelief.

Chuck shrugs self-consciously. “I guess? And then all these military types wanted to invest in my designs, and they gave me my own lab and all these materials…” He trails off and starts rambling. “I was even allowed to personally hand-pick my own research team. And let me tell you,” he laughs nervously, “some of those young scientists were willing do almost anything for a chance to get in on the ground floor of a project like that.  _Anything_ ,” Chuck repeats with a shaky raise of his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean says dryly. “We get it, Don Juan. How’d you manage to swing CEO?”

“Oh,” Chuck says, clearing his throat. “Well, after I perfected the design, I owned the patent. The investors wanted my angels for government usage and I figured, why not? Y’know?” He shrugs again. “I didn’t have any other ideas for what to do with them and I was kinda toying around with the idea of going to college, so—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Sam interrupts. “College?” Chuck nods guilelessly. “How old were you when you invented the angels?” Sam asks slowly.

“Uh…thirteen?” Chuck says. “I think?”

“Thir— You were _thirteen?”_ Sam repeats in shock.

“Um, yeah. Pretty sure. Give or take a year.” Chuck takes another solid pull from the bottle and goes back to his story. “So anyway, the army guys all wanted to set up this universal form of government. And everyone figured that the angels would be perfect federal enforcers. There’d be no planetary or species bias if all of the agents were synthetic, right? So I agreed, and they created Enoch.” He lets out a nervous exhale. “Gave me the top spot and everything.”

“Seriously?” Dean says. “When you were just a fucking kid?”

Chuck blinks his eyes a little too hard, like the memory is physically painful. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough from all the alcohol. “But it was in name only. I was a silent partner. I never actually managed anything, just worked on the angels themselves. Refined the designs and stuff.” He twitches anxiously. “Kept it up for almost twenty-five years.”

“…And then?” Sam prompts, when it seems like Chuck needs the push.

“And then I turned over the reins,” he admits reluctantly. He glances up to meet their eyes, preemptively defensive. “Enoch got too big. Everyone wanted to know who the guy in charge of it all was. It was way too much pressure, y’know? So I passed the responsibility over to a successor.”

“A successor,” Dean repeats flatly.

“Yeah,” Chuck sighs. “The board wanted me to go public, reveal myself as the face of Enoch Enterprises. But…public speaking is _hard_ ,” he whines. “I didn’t want to have to do any of it.”

Sam’s jaw drops open. “So you just handed over majority share to some _random?_  Because you were too lazy to do your damn job?”

“ _No!”_ Chuck says adamantly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. He was just a figurehead. I still handled all of the R &D stuff—his job was just to take care of the public relations bit. There wasn’t _supposed_ to be any hostile takeover.”

“And yet, here you are,” Dean says sarcastically. “Clearly living in the lap of luxury.”

Chuck groans pathetically. “Yeah, well…something bad happened.”

“Obviously,” Sam snits. “What was it?”

Chuck flinches a little, like he’s anticipating a rebuke. “I don’t know.”

Dean frowns in confusion, then shakes his head, sure that he missed something. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I _mean_ ,” Chuck sighs, “that I can’t remember.”

“Hell of a thing to _forget_ ,” Sam says sharply.

Chuck wraps his robe around him even tighter, trying to hide from the pointed criticism. “Please don’t yell at me,” he begs. His fingers tremble and the bottle starts shaking in his grip. “I can’t remember because they _did_ something to me.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow at his brother, but Sam just looks suddenly concerned. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“Look, I don’t remember much, okay?” Chuck starts hesitantly. “Just a dark room. And a dozen or so people—I don’t know, doctors, I guess—in surgery masks. And electricity. Lots and lots of painful, _agonizing_ electricity.” Dean hums thoughtfully. Electroshock _would_ explain all the twitching.

But Sam just furrows his brow, inordinately sensitive to the guy’s suffering. “Electroconvulsive Therapy?” he breathes out. “ _Fuck_. Why?”

Chuck swallows hard, then lubricates his throat with another drink. “I guess after the takeover they wanted to erase any evidence that Chuck Shurley ever existed. Even to the point of wiping my own memories.”

Dean’s back goes instantly, _ramrod_ straight at the mentioned name. “Wait,” he growls. “ _Shurley?_  As in Michael Shurley?”

Chuck colors at his slip-up, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. “Um, yeah, I guess. I mean, I can’t really remember much, but… I think he might be my son?” He glances down at his hands, then places the whiskey bottle back on its shelf before he can drop it. “I mean—he _could_ be, right? The timeline adds up.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “I don’t believe this. Michael Shurley is your friggin’ _son?”_

“Well, it would explain the name,” Sam says humorlessly.

“Family business,” Dean spits, “who knew?” Then he lets out a bitter sound and clenches his fist at his side. “Well, not to be rude or anything,” he directs at Chuck, “but your kid’s kind of a dick.”

“Mm…yeah,” Chuck hazards. “Maybe.”

“ _Maybe?”_ Dean repeats incredulously. “The guy hooked your brain up to a friggin’ _tesla coil_ just so he could take charge of his old man’s company. That’s not usually something that sane people do, Chuck.”

“I know, but…” Chuck shifts around uncomfortably, wiping his hand on his already epically stained undershirt. “Maybe he had a reason?”

“Yeah, well, we’ve met the guy,” Sam says sourly. “Doubt he’d need more of a reason than plain, old psychopathy.”

Chuck trembles a little more, then scrapes his fingers through his messy hair. “I know, but— Aren’t you supposed to give your kids the benefit of the doubt? Maybe I just don’t have the full story.”

Sam makes a face at Chuck’s words, then tilts his head. “Wait, hold on,” he says suspiciously. “Why _do_ you know any of this? If they zapped your brain totally clean, then how can you remember even bits and pieces?”

Chuck lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders drooping under the weight of his memories. “When I first woke up,” he says, “I couldn’t remember jack _or_ squat. I was just—” he waves a hand around listlessly, “ _abandoned_ in this alleyway behind a restaurant. Right here on Skaphus.” Chuck sniffs unhappily, digging his bare toes into the shabby carpeting. “It was the middle of winter—which is freaking _freezing_ here, by the way—and there were these giant blocks of hail just _pelting_ against my face, and I had no idea where or who I was, or how much time had passed…” he breaks off with another whine. “And so, I just came up with a name.  _Carver Edlund_. First thing to pop into my head.” He twitches again at the retelling, and Dean wonders if maybe it’s a side effect of poking through his own brain. “I pretended I was part of the veteran housing program, managed to beg my way into an apartment here…and this is where I’ve been ever since.”

“Wait, I’ve got a question,” Dean says. “The best alias you could come up with was _Carver Edlund?”_

Chuck flushes entirely pink. “Well _excuse_ _me_ if my terrified, hastily thrown-together witness protection name doesn’t live up to your impeccable standards,” he snipes. “I had just gotten through with having my _brain_ melted out my ears. I’d like to see you do better.”

“When did you start remembering?” his brother cuts in, clearly trying to head Chuck’s freak-out off at the pass.

The shorter man stares sullenly at Dean for one more second before turning his attention back to Sam. “Not too long after,” he says tentatively. “It usually starts with a headache. A really bad headache. Painkillers are useless, so I drink…until I fall asleep. And then I get these dreams—er, _flashes_ , I guess—of my old life. I’m not exactly sure what it was at first, but it just—it kept flowing.” He scrubs a hand over his forehead as he winces. “It still does. I-I can’t stop it, really.” Chuck glances at where he’d abandoned his cheap bottle of whiskey, then seems to change his mind. “If you’d both please excuse me one minute,” he says timidly, then turns on his heel and pads across the tiny kitchenette to his fridge. Chuck yanks open the freezer door, pulls out an equally cheap bottle of vodka, then takes a few decent pulls before placing it back inside the icebox and shutting the door again. “Sorry,” he says roughly, once he’s back in front of them. “Where were we?”

Sam just watches Chuck with this concerned frown, like he’s half afraid the guy’s gonna drop dead from alcohol poisoning right where he’s standing. “Okay,” he says eventually, after a minute of making sure that Chuck’s not in any immediate danger of keeling over. “If you remember at least a portion of what happened at Enoch, then maybe you can help us. We need some info on how to reverse-engineer one of the formulas they developed.”

“Are you _insane?”_ Chuck blurts out, eyes practically popping out of his head. “No friggin’ way!”

Dean clenches his anger between his teeth, trying not to let the knee-jerk refusal rub him the wrong way. “Chuck,” he says, feigning calm. “These are the guys who betrayed you and then tossed you out on your ass. They basically left you for dead, man. Don’t you want a little payback?”

“No!” Chuck blanches. “ _God_ , no.” He takes a few faltering steps backwards, hands held out protectively in front of him. “Do you have any idea how dangerous—how _powerful_ Enoch is? The last time I got on their bad side,” he reiterates with a fierce stab of his finger, “—I woke up in a freaking _alleyway,_ and it was four weeks later, and I couldn’t even remember my own middle _name_.” Chuck twitches at the thought, his hands shaking more from fear than liquor. “So sorry if I don’t feel like _storming the castle_ with you guys!”

Dean can’t contain his reaction this time, snaking his hands out to fist in the lapels of Chuck’s robe and then forcefully yanking him up until his toes just barely graze the carpeting. “If you’re not planning on helping us,” he grits out, “then why the hell did you tell Bela that you knew Enoch’s secrets in the first place?”

“ _Dean,”_ Sam scolds from behind him—but Dean doesn’t flinch, keeping his eyes on the trembling man in his grip.

Chuck just stares at the both of them in utterly terrified confusion. “Um, for _food and shelter?”_ he squeaks. Chuck tugs at Dean’s fingers, trying to loosen them. “Do you guys even know what I do for a living?” He and Sam blink at each other over the unexpected question, and then Dean slowly nods his head. “Well, could you tell _me?”_ Chuck asks intently, his arms flailing. “’Cause _I_ don’t. I’ve got no marketable skills. I’m a robotics engineer with a brain so fried I can’t even hook up an alternator! Plus, I’m apparently terrified of electricity. It-it really isn’t conducive to a steady livelihood.” He fights against Dean’s hold, then quickly gives up once it’s clear that his struggles aren’t accomplishing anything. “Her hair smelled nice,” Chuck says, wilting under Dean’s glare, “and she paid me, and I just— I don’t _know_ , okay?”

Dean growls and slams Chuck back against the nearest wall. “Not good enough,” he snarls. “We’re on a bit of a time crunch, Chuck. So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna tell us every goddamn thing you know about Croatoan or I’m gonna make you _wish_ that you couldn’t remember anything at all. Understand?”

“Croatoan?” Chuck echoes. “What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about Croatoan!”

“Bullshit!” Dean shouts. “Enoch is behind the Croatoan virus. Michael Shurley, _your_ son, is the one who came up with the goddamn recipe!” Dean shoves him even harder against the wall, narrowing his eyes to thin slits. “His fucking angel _minions_ are trying to wipe out all organic life in order to star in their own psychotic little version of All Robots Go to Heaven—and _Shurley Jr._ is the one pulling all of the puppets’ strings. So start _talking!”_

“Okay, look,” Chuck gasps, frantically scrabbling for a handhold. “The angels sometimes used to ask questions, okay? They’d ask about Heaven, or want to know the difference between synthetic and organic life, but we always considered that a _failure_ ,” he says. “We’d wipe all the memory templates and start over whenever something like that happened. Any angel that got too curious or too self-aware was scrapped! I _swear!_  I swear to god, we _scrapped_ them!”

Dean takes a slow breath, logging the important info away. “What about Croatoan?” he asks again.

“What?” Chuck says desperately, gawping at him like _Dean’s_ the one with a few screw loose here. “I don’t know anything about Croatoan. I only know about the angels.” Chuck wiggles in his grip again, frantically trying to get free. “I don’t know anything else. I _swear_ , I don’t know anything else!”

“Alright, Chuck,” Dean says, low and menacing. “We’re officially out of time for games now. So this is what we’re gonna do.” He leans in and holds the man’s stare, doesn’t even blink. “I’ve got a gun in my pocket, and if you don’t ante up, I’ll blow your brains out.”

Chuck quails under his words, utterly terrified. “What? You think I’m _lying_ to you?!”

“I think that _you_ think I’m bluffing,” Dean threatens darkly. He presses in even further, nose twitching at the stale smell of liquor. “I’m not.”

“Dean, that’s _enough,”_ his brother barks. Sam manages to get a insistent hand around his shoulder, but Dean violently shakes it off—knocking Sam back a few paces in the process.

“Oh god, I don’t know!” Chuck wails. “I don’t know anything. This has just been a _really_ stressful day.” He does his best to try and curl up into a ball against the wall. “Please don’t hurt me!”

“Dean, _stop!_  He doesn’t know!” Sam yanks on his shoulder again, managing to pull him a few steps back, before abruptly descending into a painful spasm of hacking coughs. His fingers slip from Dean’s arm as he struggles to breathe.

Chuck slowly stills in his grasp as he casts horror-stricken eyes over to Sam. “Wait…holy shit. Are you sick?” He violently swings his gaze back to Dean. “Is that why you were asking about Croatoan? Is he _sick?!”_

“Shut up, Chuck,” Dean hisses, jerking his hands forcefully. “Sammy, are you okay?” The fit doesn’t abate, just deteriorates from the less-serious dry coughs to the terrifying sounds of wet choking. Sam sounds like Benny did—just before… “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean spits under his breath. He drops Chuck in a heap and rushes over to his brother’s side. “C’mon, Sam, you’re alright.” Dean gets a hand around Sam’s back, alternating between broad, soothing sweeps to calm his breathing and firm thwacks to try and break up the blood in his lungs. “You’re alright, buddy. C’mon, you’re fine.”

Sam finally manages to suck in a few gulps of air, chest hitching as he grabs onto Dean like a life preserver. “He doesn’t know, Dean,” Sam rasps the instant he can speak again, voice flayed raw. “He doesn’t know anything.” He exhaustedly lets his head drop against Dean’s neck, and Dean can feel the plastic frame of the sunglasses digging into his skin as Sam presses his face in harder. “C’mon, let’s just _go_. Please.”

Dean slowly lets his gaze wander back over to where Chuck has crammed himself up against the corner wall, chest heaving as he watches the spectacle with huge, scared eyes. Just a patsy. He always was. Doesn’t know a fucking _thing_. “…Yeah,” Dean whispers roughly. “Yeah, okay, Sam. We’re going.” 

He helps heft his brother to his feet and they make their way out the door, not even sparing the hyperventilating Chuck a backwards glance as Dean closes it behind them. Sam feels like lead where he’s leaning heavily against him, and Dean knows he’s not much better himself. It’s like this last failure sucked all the hope away and replaced it with a fucking gravity well. If Dean lets go of his brother, they’ll probably both just sink down right through the planet’s crust. They might as well, actually. Doesn’t make much of a difference _how_ they go, now that they’re going. No last minute save on this one. Dean lets out a bitter laugh at the thought. Guess they used up all their miracles for this lifetime.

He and Sam wearily stumble back out into the empty streets, his brother eventually managing to pull more of his own weight as he gets himself back together. It’s cold out here at night. Dean didn’t notice the temperature earlier—bolstered by his single-minded focus on their quest—but now he can feel the freezing air seeping deep into his bones, making his joints ache. It seems appropriate. Their last night planetside is gonna be on one that’s cold and dirty and poisonous. Story of their lives really.

Sam keeps one hand clamped around Dean’s bicep as they slowly head back to the ship, probably hesitant to relinquish the contact now that he knows this is the end of the road, and Dean just wants to crumble into the touch. He wants to wrap Sam up and keep him here—call a time-out on this whole thing and just hide for a while. Or forever.

“ _So_ ,” Dean says instead, forcing a normal conversation. “We’ve got a few hours left. Feel like making a TJ-run?” He shakes off Sam’s hand so that he can curl that arm around his brother’s shoulders, playing it light. “We could catch a donkey show, never done that before.”

Sam snorts at the offer, but sinks further against Dean’s side. “Dude, even if I live a _hundred_ years after this, that is somewhere I never need to be.” He turns to fix him with a soft smile, and Dean can instantly tell that Sam thinks he’s planning on living on without him. Like this is only goodbye for one of them. Dean quietly scoffs under his breath. Good, he can use that. He can get Sam exactly where he needs him as long as his brother is feeling all weepy and charitable.

“Narcellus then?” Dean asks. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard the bar scene is pretty epic.” He takes a deep breath, squeezing his arm tighter. “Or…we could always stop by Earth,” he says quietly.

Sam remains silent for a brief moment. “Doubt we’d be able to make it in time,” he says eventually.

Dean nods in quiet accord and tosses the sappy idea out of his head. Could have been nice is all—seeing Kansas one last time, even if it’s from a few thousand miles above. Sam might be more worried about the West Coast though. Maybe he doesn’t want to think about Stanford. About _Jess_. Not here at the end. Dean can understand that.

“Where to then?” he asks softly. “You’ve got your pick of the universe, Sam Winchester. Dealer’s choice. Anywhere we can get to within…” he checks his cybernetics, “—three hours.” The whole pretense is mostly for show, they’re barely going to be able to make it out of the system as it is.

Sam stops walking, halting them against the brick of one of the poorly-lit alleyways. “You remember that fringe nebula we stopped at?” he says. “Right after you got out of the Pit?”

Dean nods understandingly. “You wanna try for there?”

Sam holds his breath for a second, then drops his head with a self-recriminating huff of air. “No, not really.” Dean brings a hand up to trace the edge of his cheekbone, and he lets out another sigh. “Can we just go back to the ship?”

“Seriously?”

His brother leans into him, letting his face rest against Dean’s temple. “What’s the point, man?” he mumbles into his hairline. “I just wanna go home.”

Dean lets out a heartbroken sigh of his own and runs a hand over the back of his brother’s hair. “Alright, Sammy,” he says. “Home it is.” 

He lets Sam lean against him for another minute or ten, letting the rough brick of the alley wall hold them both up as he soaks in this final moment. This is it. This is what he gets. One last moment with his brother in his arms, hiding out in a frozen, trash-filled alley. But he’ll take it. He’ll take it and be grateful. Dean presses one last kiss to the side of his brother’s head, and then, at some unspoken signal, they both push away from the wall and slowly drag themselves back toward where they’re docked.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There’s a Mormon elder handing out pamphlets at the main entrance of the port, fresh-faced and devout as he does his best to save the souls of the random passersby, and Dean allows his mind drift toward the possibility for a second. A hell of a lot of people believe in an afterlife of some kind. So, who can say for sure? He’s probably just grasping at straws here, but maybe there’s something to it. Dean’s never bought into the hype himself—but you know what they say about desperate times and all that. He hangs back a little as Sam heads over to unclip them from the docks. “You guys have planets, right?” he asks casually, leaning back to settle against the perimeter fencing.

The missionary blinks at him and the scales lining his jaw flush a deep purple. “Um, excuse me, sir?”

Dean fixes the vetala with a flat look. “Planets, right? In your afterlife or whatever?”

“Oh.” The kid tugs at his collar and stands up a little straighter. “Um, yes. If you’re referring to the celestial kingdom. Kolob is—well, perhaps not exactly a planet, _per se_. Um, exactly.” He clears his throat and flips through the pamphlet in his hands. “Kolob is ‘set nigh unto Heavenly Father’s throne,’” he reads from his flyer, “…‘to govern all those planets which belong to the same border as that upon which thou standest.’ It might be a metaphor,” he says quietly. “At least, I think it might be.”

“You _think?”_ Dean asks slowly, raising an eyebrow. “What, you new at this or something?”

The vetala colors again. “Um…yes, sir. Sort of. It’s my first mission.” He nervously taps his fingers against his brochure, then glances back up. “Am I doing okay?” he whispers.

Dean can’t help but laugh. Of course. The one time he actually needs it, he gets the fucking greenhorn. “Yeah,” Dean says tiredly, rubbing a careless hand over his eyes. “You’re doing great, kid. Bang-up job.”

“Wow. Thank you, sir.” Sam comes up the walk again, gesturing that they’re clear for takeoff, and Dean pushes away from the fence to follow him. “Wait,” the missionary calls out after him. “Did—um, did you want some literature?”

Dean tosses the kid an exhausted smile. “Think I’d prefer to experience it firsthand,” he says. Then he tilts his head back to gesture at Sam’s silhouette. “Put in a good word for us with the man upstairs though, would you?” The vetala gives him a confused nod, and Dean strides away, hands in his pockets as he trails his brother up the walkway to their ship. To their _home_. Might as well call it that now, if he’s ever going to.

Cas is on them the instant they clear the bulkhead doors, clearly on edge from how they’ve been coming and going like shitty satellite reception the past two days. “What happened?” he asks, practically buzzing as he pelts them with questions. “Were you able to locate the needed information? Is Sam alright now? Where’s the antigen?”

“…There is no antigen, Cas,” Sam says tiredly. He pulls the sunglasses away from his face and flings them in the vague direction of the coffee table. “Chuck didn’t know anything.”

“And who is Chuck?” Cas asks, tilting his head.

“Edlund,” Dean clarifies, shuffling in behind his brother and shrugging out of his jacket. “Carver Edlund, Chuck—same guy.” He gives the angel a bloodless smile. “Turns out that he used to be the head of Enoch Enterprises before his psycho kid zapped his brain and took over. So that’s a neat bit of info, I guess. Might give you a bit of a leg-up next time you feel like playing Trivial Pursuit.” Dean blows past the confused android, making his way over to the cockpit so that he can plug in a random destination. It doesn’t matter where they’re going, they’ll never make it there. He just wants to be out of Osscade’s jurisdiction before it happens.

Cas blinks as the both of them keep going about their business. “Wait, I don’t understand,” he says. “If there’s no antigen, then how are we going to cure Sam?”

Dean pauses where he’s bent over the controls, then turns to share a long look with his brother. The stretch of silence is so charged, they could probably power a small planet with it.

“We’re _not_ , Cas,” Sam explains softly. “There’s no cure. It’s—” He breaks off with a defeated sigh and drops his gaze to the floor. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Cas frowns. “No,” he says firmly. “By my calculations, we still have fifty-seven minutes left. We’ll just have to come up with something on our own.”

“There’s no more time,” Dean says stiffly, jostling past Cas as he heads back out into the main quarters. “We had a good run, man, but shit happens.” He steps up to the sofa and places a shoulder against it, shoving it across the metal flooring and out of the way. Cas likes this couch. Dean’s gonna make sure they don’t get any blood on it so that he can keep it.

Sam makes a face at where Dean is arbitrarily moving the furniture around, but quickly turns his attention back to their angel. “Look, it’s gonna be okay, Cas,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you in the next life, huh?”

“There is absolutely no scientific evidence supporting any realistic concept of a great beyond,” Cas says unhappily.

Sam fixes him with a broken smile. “Humor me?”

“…Oh,” the angel breathes, catching on to the concept just a second too late. “I was supposed to lie.”

His brother huffs out a small chuckle at their robot’s literal nature. “You’re gonna be fine, man. I promise. And you’ll still have Dean.”

Dean finally straightens from his crouch, letting out a hesitant breath. “No,” he says quietly. “Sorry, Cas, but I’m not hanging around.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Sam hisses, whirling around to pin Dean with the bitchiest glare he’s ever seen.

“He’s not gonna have me, Sam,” Dean says firmly. “I ain’t going on without you.”

“No, I don’t—” Cas lets out a faint electrical whine, his circuits nearly vibrating with uncertainty. “I am uncomfortable with the organic inevitability of a permanent cessation of existence,” he says intently. “I am _exponentially_ uncomfortable with the notion of that happening to both of you at the same time.”

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Sam grits through his teeth, eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Dean isn’t going anywhere.”

“Well don’t fucking _lie_ to him,” Dean snarls back.

“I’m not entirely certain what I would do on my own,” Cas speaks up tentatively.

“You’ve got the ship, man. You can do whatever you want.” Dean waves an impatient hand over his shoulder. “Go wherever you’d like.”

“No, absolutely not!” Sam interjects adamantly. “ _He_ doesn’t have the ship, Dean.  _You_ do. And Cas is gonna be totally _fine_ because you’ll be there and you’re both gonna be _fine_.” Sam cuts a terrifying figure like this, all lit up and shaking with indignant fury. His eyes are completely flooded with blood now, and it’s a shame that he’s not gonna be able to reap any of the practical benefits of this whole thing, because he could probably win any argument from here to the end of time with his eyes the way they are. Anyone else would be running for the hills right now. “Were you even planning on saying something?” he spits. “Or were you just gonna quietly off yourself after I’d already bit it?”

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I knew you’d pitch a crazy fit. Which— _ta-da_ ,” he announces, gesturing wildly at his brother’s face, “proving my point for me. Thanks.”

“This isn’t gonna happen, Dean,” Sam says with a grimace. “I won’t let you.”

“Oh, really?” he taunts. “And how are you gonna _stop_ me?”

His brother flushes dark red, and they’re both about two seconds from getting into an all-out screaming match. “Why are you even doing this?” he shouts. “How can you want to _kill_ yourself, you _crazy fucking asshole?”_

“What are you even talking about?” Dean asks, completely baffled. “It’s the same fucking thing you’re doing!”

Sam lets out an ugly sound, throwing his head back in exasperation. “Oh my god, no, it’s not. I _have_ to!” He violently scrubs a hand down his face. “ _Why_ , Dean? I don’t understand. Just tell me why you’re doing this!”

“’Cause there ain’t no _me_ if there ain’t no _you!”_ Dean roars. The lingering echoes continue to ring throughout the room as they bounce off the metal walls—and none of them say a word.  Sam is the first one to move, blinking away the tears of frustration still clinging to the edges of his lashes. They’re clear. For some inane reason, Dean assumed they’d be red too. “I can’t do this without you, Sammy,” he says eventually, quieter this time. 

His brother’s face crumples. “Yes, you can.”

“I _won’t_.” Sam shuts up at that one, apparently finally getting it, and Dean turns his attention to their last crew member. “Cas,” he tosses behind him. “Engine room. Now.” Dean takes a breath, allowing himself a moment to think it over, then exhales guiltily. It isn’t fair to condemn the guy to an eternity locked in the bowels of the ship just because of his lazy wording. “There’ll be two gunshots, okay?” he says, a little gentler. “You can come out after the second one.”

“ _Dean_ —” the angel starts.

“That’s an order.” Dean doesn’t look, but he can hear the faint sounds of footsteps slowly trailing away. Sam’s sorrowful eyes follow every step of Cas’s retreat over the curve of Dean’s shoulder. It isn’t until his brother’s gaze snaps back to meet his own that Dean speaks again. “Any last requests?” he asks softly, only half joking.

“Dean, please,” Sam begs. “Go after Cas.” A single tear escapes, running down the side of his face as he reaches out to grasp at the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Just give me my gun and I’ll do it myself.”

Dean cracks a bittersweet smile at the small victory. “Can’t. Thumbprint-locked, remember?”

Sam breaks down completely at the reminder, turning away to kick at one of Dean’s assorted tools still scattered across the floor. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done,” he snarls wetly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Remember that waitress in Trezol? With the rash?” He mimes a playfully overdramatic shudder.

Sam ignores him, bulldozing over his attempts to lighten the mood. “Dean, you don’t have to do this.  _I’m_ the one with the inescapable, killer virus burning through my system,” he says bleakly. “There’s no out for me on this one. But there is for you.” Sam surges back in again, clutching at his face. “You don’t have to do this. You can keep going.”

“Yeah?" Dean breathes. "Who says I want to?”

Sam gapes at him for a stunned second, and then he hauls back, clenching his fist like he’s planning on landing a vicious sucker punch right to his sternum—but he breaks down again before he can follow through, his fingers twitching open as he simply collapses onto Dean instead. “Don’t,” Sam sobs desperately against the hinge of his jaw. “ _Please_ don’t do this.”

Dean lets out a breath, then brings his own arms up to wrap around his brother’s shoulders, slowly lowering them both to the floor. “Sorry, kiddo,” he whispers into Sam’s hair, carefully cradling the back of his head. “I ain’t changing my mind on this one.”

Dean lets Sam cry himself out, then taps at his temple with his free hand, bringing up his cybernetics display and opening the dashboard clock with a flick of his wrist. The holographic numerals zip up to float at the left side of his peripheral, the pale light flickering as the seconds click by.  **10:56:28 PM**. **10:56:29**. **30**. 

“Three and a half minutes,” he whispers roughly, pulling back enough that he can catch Sam’s eyes. “You ready, sweetheart?”

Sam lets out a trembling sigh and finally gives in, his entire body going slack as another tear sneaks free to snake down his cheek. “Sure,” he says quietly, swallowing a few times before he can get the word out.

Dean pulls his ray gun clear of its holster, finger resting loose on the outside of the trigger guard, as Sam’s wet, wide eyes follow every minute movement of his hand. He takes a shuddering breath, then intentionally turns off every single emotion other than grim determination. Dean keeps his eyes locked on Sam’s the whole time, slowly bringing up the barrel of his gun and aiming it directly at his brother’s forehead. A practice run—just to make sure he can do this. He silently mimes the kick-back of a lethal laser blast, then drags it back and presses the muzzle hard against his own temple, cocking his wrist to repeat the gesture.

Sam only flinches at the second one.

There’s a moment of breathless silence, and then his brother is suddenly shaking his head violently, like he’ll be able to knock the very idea loose just by trying hard enough. Sam grips at Dean’s wrist until the bones grind together, his voice scoured hoarse with reinvigorated stubbornness. “No, Dean!  _Please_. You can still get out! Just _leave._  You don’t have to—”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” he growls, wrenching his hand free. “You really wanna play this game?” His brother flinches back in an obvious ‘no’, but Dean doesn’t have the time for kid gloves anymore. He twists his lips into an angry sneer, getting directly into his brother’s face. “If the situation was reversed, and I was infected? You’d do the exact same thing.”

Sam slams his eyes shut in deliberate mulishness and wrenches his head side-to-side again, tears streaming from his lashes as he evinces his disagreement. It’s a blatant, bold-faced lie. And they both know it.

“Yeah, you fucking would,” Dean spits, wrapping his left hand around the nape of Sam’s neck so he can knock their foreheads together—letting the rest of the universe drift away until nothing else exists other than that single point of contact between them. He thinks about that missionary kid again. The religious types with their unflinching belief in life after death. It is comforting, he supposes, now that they’re down to the wire like this. Dean hopes that, if there _is_ a hereafter, he and Sam get to share a planet. It would really suck if his afterlife consisted of him trying to construct a makeshift shuttle in order to hop over to his brother’s Heaven. Knowing his luck though… Dean smiles to himself and rubs his thumb soothingly along the back of Sam’s jawline until his breathing settles. “I’ll see you in the celestial kingdom, okay?” he jokes weakly.

Sam lets out a wet, broken laugh and throws him an indulgent nod. “Yeah, okay,” he whispers roughly, so much love in his voice that Dean could choke on it. “I’ll save you a continent.”

And then, they wait—foreheads pressed together and breathing each other’s stale air. It’s not smart for them to be this close. Once the virus hits, Sam will be juiced up enough to rip out his throat before he can get a shot off. But Dean doesn’t mind so much. He knows how to pull a trigger as he bleeds out. Let his brother get his teeth into his neck if he wants to. Dean’s gonna follow him down soon enough, anyway—doesn’t matter if it’s at his hand, or Sam’s.

He gives the clock another quick glance.  **10:59:41 PM**.  **10:59:42**.  **10:59:43**. Dean swallows back pain and levels his gun even against his little brother’s temple.

“Dean, I…”

“I know,” he grinds out thickly. “Shut up.”

Sam gives him a shattered smile, then closes his eyes against the burst of laser fire he knows is coming. Dean adjusts his grip on his blaster and waits for his brother to open them again—the only warning he’ll get before Sam lunges.

Dean waits…

And waits…

Sam flinches slightly, unable to stop himself from shaking in anticipation of the impending blast—and Dean swallows hard around the painful lump in his throat, forcing himself to keep his gaze on Sam as he waits to blast a smoking hole directly between his little brother's beautiful star burst eyes. Well, maybe not so beautiful at the moment. Dean chokes back erratic laughter at the stray thought, viciously clamping down on the emotion before it tips him straight over into a breakdown. They’re gonna be the last fucking thing he sees. Sam’s dead eyes staring up at him, blank and empty. Snuffed out by Dean’s own hand.

He rips the gruesome imagery out of his mind and focuses back on the task at hand.  _Shit. How much longer?_  Dean wasn’t paying attention, sidetracked by the horror show running on a loop in his brain. He’d lost track of time. Wasn’t paying attention—w _asn’t paying attention because he couldn’t handle the thought of Sam dead._   _Sammy staring up at him with glassy eyes. Red, bloody eyes. Cold and lifeless, empty and unseeing and **dead** , and Dean’s grip slips on his blaster as he tries to bring the gun up to his own temple. His hand slips because it’s soaked from the blood running down Sam’s face. He couldn’t help it, he had to touch. Had to make sure. He had to press his trembling fingers to Sam’s cheek one last time. Just to make sure. Just one last time. And now his hands are covered in blood. Soaked in his **brother’s** blood— _

Dean wrenches himself away from the nightmarish thoughts and sucks in a frantic breath. He needs to pull himself together. He needs to stop freaking the fuck out. It’s not gonna be like that. _It’s gonna be exactly like that._ All he has to do is pull the trigger once. It’ll be over in a heartbeat. The second shot will be a mercy. Dean can do this.  _No, he can’t._ He can do it for the both of them. He just needs to know how much time they’ve got left.

He spares a risky, hurried glance at his countdown clock—then just _blinks_ until his brain catches up to his eyes. Because the numbers are still continuing to tick by.  **11:01:21 PM**.  **11:01:22 PM**.  **11:01:23.**

Dean’s heart tears loose from his chest and lodges itself in his throat, choking him until he can pull in enough air to speak. “ _Sam_ ,” he eventually manages to croak.

“What? How much longer?” Sam grits the words through his teeth, eyes shut so tight that Dean’s ache in sympathy. “I don’t wanna know,” he whispers, still shaking. “Just—don’t tell me.”

“No, Sam, it’s— It’s _past_.” Dean drops his gun hand like it’s made of stone. He’d cut it off right now if Sam asked him to. Wouldn’t even blink. He’d _almost—_  “It’s past eleven,” Dean chokes out. “You didn’t—” He sucks in a hitching breath, letting a manic grin rip its way across his face. “You didn’t turn.”

“What?” his brother asks, brow furrowed in confusion as his eyes automatically flutter open. “What do you mean? That doesn’t—” He desperately searches Dean’s gaze for a few seconds, then shakes his head in willful disbelief. “Your clock’s wrong.”

“It’s not _wrong_ , you fucker!” Dean shouts, shoving his ray gun back in his holster as the metal clamp around his lungs cranks loose enough that he can breathe again. “It’s my cybernetic one. It’s hooked up to the goddamn Crystalline Atomic Clock!” He lets out a sound of sheer, unadulterated joy and wraps his hands around his brother’s face.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Sam says brokenly, still grasping for an answer. “Maybe it’s not an exact timing thing.” He frantically scrabbles at Dean’s belt, fingers hooking over his holster. “Get your gun back out, dammit! It’s not safe!”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean stresses, trying to shake some sense into the head between his palms. “It’s over. You’re _safe_. Sammy, you’re safe.” His voice breaks on that last one, and Sam sags in his hold as the tentative hope begins to wash over his brother’s face as well.

“How?” he whispers tremulously. “Dean, that doesn’t make sense. How could…?” Sam trails off, terrified and desperately in need of reassurance—but Dean can’t give it to him because he can’t speak. He can’t do anything but _stare_ as the violent, ruptured mess begins to fade from the whites of his brother’s eyes. The bloody tinge to his gaze just _dissolves_ , spider veins unraveling themselves as they slowly disappear back into clear, prismatic hazel.

“Not everyone turns,” Dean repeats in shock. The same fateful words he’d said to Benny right before he’d been proven so horrifically wrong. But this time… He makes a sound like a dying animal and presses his face into Sam’s hair, thanking the stupid Mormon god that this time he gets to mean them. “Not everyone turns,” he chokes out again.

And then he’s suddenly knocked backwards as he’s confronted with an uncontrollable armful of little brother. Sam _launches_ himself at Dean’s chest, arms wrapping around his ribs so tight that he can’t pull in any air, but this time it’s _good_. It’s so goddamn _good_. Dean laughs again—his face is wet, and he can barely breathe, and he yanks Sam’s head up so fast, he’s half worried that he’s just pulled a muscle in his brother’s neck. But Sam surges forward to meet him just as enthusiastically, and then they’re kissing like it’s the last chance they’re ever gonna get. And it’s the best fucking kiss of Dean’s life. Because it’s Sammy, and he’s _here_ , and he’s _okay_ , and Dean thinks that if his brother wasn’t holding him to the floor with the sheer strength of his arms, he’d probably fly away.

Sam fucking _ravages_ his mouth, nipping and moaning and digging his fingers into Dean’s back—like he could possibly have any inclination of being anywhere else at the moment. Dean tightens the brutal grip he’s got on his brother’s hip, then the one in his hair, letting Sam know that he has absolutely no intention of leaving, and then he simply lets the terrified exhaustion of the last two days drain itself away. He sinks back and allows his brother do whatever the fuck he wants to him. Anything he could possibly think of. Sam could ask him to throw on a tutu and deepthroat a cactus right now, and Dean would just ask, _“What color?”_  

But what Sam _wants_ , apparently, is just to maul Dean until he’ll never be able to move again. And Dean’s so blissed-out that he can barely keep up. Sam is _everywhere—_ firm and strong and _alive_ —writhing up against him, his muscles bunching under the thin layer of fabric separating them. Dean claws his fingers into it, tearing his brother’s shirt out of the way so he can get at the warm, taut skin underneath. He groans rapturously at the feel of his brother in his arms, and then Sam is crying against his neck again, and Dean can’t keep the good news to himself for a single minute longer.

“Cas!” he shouts happily, tilting his head back toward the bulkhead doors. “Cas, come get your stuffy, android ass out here!” He turns back to grin at Sam, laughing as the joy and relief tear through him. “What the hell, man? You been tossing back vitamins in secret or something?”

“Dude, I don’t even get flu shots,” Sam laughs back. “I have no _idea_ what the hell’s going on. I haven’t put a single thing in these veins that the rest of the croats haven’t. I—” He cuts off halfway through his sentence as his expression suddenly goes slack, his face pale with the realization. _Because that’s not quite true, is it?_ Sam gapes at him in horror as they both slowly come to the same grisly conclusion. “You don’t think…?”

Dean opens his mouth to either affirm or deny his brother’s suspicions—he’s not entirely sure yet—when Cas chooses that exact moment to come bursting out of the automatic doors like he’d been waiting impatiently behind them the whole time.

“Sam, you’re alright,” he says, visibly relieved. “It’s so good to see you alive.” The angel steps forward, raising his arms as he clumsily moves in for a hug—but Dean’s still got himself entirely wrapped around his brother where they’re kneeling on the floor, and the mood in the room is suddenly two stops past depressing. And it’s another twenty seconds or so before one of them can even piece themselves together enough to speak.

“Um, look, Cas,” Sam starts distractedly, his eyes vaguely focused somewhere over the android’s shoulder. “I would hug you, but…”

Cas tilts his head as he slowly lowers his arms, trying to pick up on the social cues of the humans around him. “That would be…awkward?” he attempts. Then he blinks down at where the two of them are still tangled, fumbling for a logical answer to the confusing display. “Is that the correct answer?” he asks _sotto voce_. “I’m still building up my database of Winchester emotions. It’s a work in progress, of course.”

Sam lets out a halting breath, brain too frazzled to even attempt a response.

Dean just groans.

 


	5. Lay the Real Thing on Me

“…Seventy-six percent,” Cas eventually forces out. “ _Confirmed_ , that is.” The angel shifts a bit before glancing over to meet Sam’s eyes, maybe embarrassed that he didn’t make the connection before. “And the recorded witness accounts corroborate that another thirteen percent of the survivors were known to frequent the type of establishments that likely had access to Demon Blood.” He clears his throat, fiddling with his tie as he continues. “Adding that circumstantial evidence…it puts the count at close to ninety percent.”

Dean scoffs from where he’s pressed hard against Sam’s chest, his shoulder digging into Sam’s sternum. “Seems pretty cut and dry to me,” he says gruffly. The couch is still scrunched up against the far wall because neither of them had the energy to move it back into its usual spot, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind too much. One of his dirty boots is planted square on the center of the coffee table and he’s using the proximity to leverage himself back into Sam, and by extension, Sam back against the sofa cushions.

“What about the other eleven percent?” Sam asks, voice still hoarse from earlier. “You got anything on them?”

Cas’s mouth twitches in disappointment. “Nothing conclusive. The remaining survivors are spread across a random cross-section of vocations, but they’re mainly professional ones. Unlikely to spend time in some of the seedier establishments.”

“So, you’re talking bigwigs?” Dean asks, sounding a little surprised. “What, like politicians and shit?”

“Professional athletes, mostly,” Cas replies. “A few notable attorneys. A smattering of enforcers.” He quirks his head as he skims the data. “And one politician, yes.”

“So it _is_ the Demon Blood then,” Sam says quietly. He curls his fingers tighter into the sides of his brother’s shirt. “That’s what they have in common— What _we_ have in common,” he corrects himself quickly. “…The survivors.”

“Sammy, what are you talking about?” Dean awkwardly cranes his neck to try and catch his eyes. “Those last few really don’t sound like your typical junkies.”

“DB cuts emotion and it boosts physical performance,” Sam says dully. “That’s what it’s made for. Why _wouldn’t_ athletes use it?” He can feel Dean go still against him as he listens. “Enforcers too,” Sam adds. “And I don’t know about you, but to me, sociopathy sounds like a pretty big benefit for a lawyer. Especially for the ones handling the iffier cases.”

There’s a shared bout of silence at his words as everyone digests the information, and Sam takes a moment to wonder what he should be feeling more of—shame or gratitude. It’s hard to trust the current thrum of relief washing through him when he’s spent every second of the last few years violently flagellating himself over the exact same shitty decision that’s just saved his life. Who could have guessed that his greatest failing would turn out to be the one and only thing that would end up delivering him _and_ Dean from a horrifying death? Sam lets out a bitter sound. Life is a fucking _bitch_ sometimes.

He’s pulled forcibly back into the present when Dean silently laces his own hands over Sam’s jittery ones. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been absent-mindedly petting over his brother’s sides. Apparently, the unconscious pawing got annoying enough for Dean to take it upon himself to stop it, but Sam can’t dredge up anything other than affection at the movement—drawing only comfort and appreciation from the barely-there touch. He and Dean are here, and they’re _alive_ , and he suddenly has the irrational urge to chuck both of their blasters out the airlock, just to be safe. Although, considering that he just managed to _avoid_ being brutally murdered by his brother, there’s no reason to push his luck by jettisoning Dean’s favorite pistol.

“So, it’s like a vaccine,” Sam says, once he can will himself back on topic. “I mean, it _must_ be. Right?” He glances up at Cas, willing to accept any flimsy answer the android can give him. “Like, anyone who’s ever used DB is somehow inoculated against Croatoan?” Cas gives him a hesitant nod, and Sam reluctantly slips a hand out of his brother’s grip in order to rub at the beginnings of a stress headache. “But that’s so fucking weird.  _How?_  And why?”

“And is it intentional?” Dean adds lowly. “Either Enoch knows…or this whole friggin’ thing is just a happy accident.” He gnaws at the corner of his lower lip as he considers the options. “Not sure which one I’m hoping for, honestly.”

His brother’s uncertainty does absolutely nothing to alleviate Sam’s anxiety over this whole issue, and he drops his head against the back of Dean’s neck with a frustrated sigh. “And is it only Demon Blood?” he grumbles. “Or are we gonna find some hidden pocket of Spark-heads who are magically unaffected too? How far does this immunity even go?”

A bright flash of grace whirls through Cas’s eyes as he attempts to help. “Demon Blood is the only commonality I can find amongst the survivors,” he says with confidence. “At least, as far as narcotics go.”

“And you’re sure this time?” Dean asks skeptically. “No offense, man, but earlier—”

“— _Earlier_ , I was working with limited information,” Cas explains. “I didn’t consider leisure habits as a viable route of investigation, but I’ve since adjusted my algorithm to account for the new relevant data. Recreational use of Demon Blood is the only reasonable common denominator.” He frowns a little, clearly intent on being thorough this time. “Sixty-one percent of the unaffected individuals do seem to prefer institutions that specialize in trance music,” he says, “but I calculated that particular train of thought to be a dead end.”

Sam shifts back a bit, discreetly trying to adjust the arm that’s slowly falling asleep under his brother’s weight, then gives up. It’s not worth it to break the point of contact. “So what’s our next step?” he tosses out at his crewmates. “Considering that none of us are currently _dead_ …do we try and stop Shurley?” There’s an awkward moment of silence. “Well?” he prompts again.

Cas throws him an open-handed shrug. “We do seem to be the only feasible option.”

“That really ain’t great news for the rest of the universe,” Dean gripes, completely unhelpfully.

Sam gives his brother an appropriately reprimanding nudge, then sinks back against the leather cushions as he thinks. “Okay—I doubt we can stop the distribution of Croatoan altogether. I mean, who knows which shipments of drugs are even laced? Or how many? And it’s not like everyone in the colonies is suddenly gonna stop shooting up, no matter what we say.” He shakes his head disappointedly. “So…next best thing?”

Cas slips his hands into the pockets of his coat and leans back against the ship wall as he thinks—or _processes_ , or whatever. “Leaking information would be the most efficient way of spreading the word in this scenario,” he says after a brief moment. “Using a person of influence in the community to reveal that Demon Blood works as a vaccine would achieve the fastest results.”

“And get flocks of organics lining up to jam a hypo anywhere they can reach,” Sam adds bitterly. “Users _and_ non-users, Cas. We’d be solely responsible for the most widespread surge of addiction in the last five hundred years.”

Dean squeezes a supportive hand over his knee, but remains quiet, none of his usual meaningless words of reassurance to back up the action. Maybe his brother’s silence is just more proof that they really _are_ up shit creek here. That an enforced plague of hard drug-use is seriously their best option. Their _only_ option.

Sam digs his free hand into his thigh, scrabbling for another alternative. “Look,” he spits under his breath, “this isn’t gateway shit, you guys. DB is fucked up. It’s virulently addictive, it’s dangerous, and if we let it, it’s gonna get a lot of people dead.”

“Better than everyone in the entire universe,” Dean says quietly. Cas doesn’t make a sound, but his intentional silence is just as telling.

Sam jerks away from his brother in disbelief. “Are you even listening to yourselves?” he gapes at the both of them. “If we do this, we’re gonna get hundreds of organics killed—if not more—and who-knows-how-many fucked up for the rest of their lives. And that’s gonna be on _us_.”

“I didn’t say it was a great call, Sam,” Dean spits, “just a _better_ one.” He scrubs his forehead against his shoulder and lets out a harsh growl. “Look, I know this fucking sucks, but we’re stuck between two shitty options. So you can bitch about ‘rock’ or ‘hard place’ all you want, _I’m_ picking the door with a lower body count.”

“And you?” Sam asks stiffly, lifting his gaze to catch the angel’s. “You’re on board with this?”

Cas meets Sam’s stare with a firm one of his own, but his eyes flicker sadly. “From a macro standpoint…this plan is the most economical. To harm a few in order to save many,” he recites solemnly. “In fact, I believe that particular ethical experiment actually originated on your Earth.”

Sam can’t bring himself to vocalize his concession, but Dean wraps Sam’s hands up in his own again anyway. They’ve never really needed words between the two of them. “Guess it’s time to go blow some whistles,” his brother says softly. He turns his attention to Cas, then asks, “You think Crowley counts as influential enough?”

“I believe so,” Cas nods, pushing away from the wall to pace along the length of the room. His steps are quick, measured. Synthetically perfect. It’s an odd quirk for their even odder robot to have, but Sam’s pretty much used to Cas’s eccentricities by now. “Hell is a sizeable enough cartel,” the angel continues, “and Crowley does seem to have a way with communication.”

Sam scoffs at the statement. Everyone is obviously thinking it, but no one’s saying anything. So Sam does it for them. “You think Crowley knew?” he asks.

Dean shifts uncomfortably for a bit, but then lets out a dismissive breath. “No,” he says assuredly—all big brother bravado. “I think if Crowley had _any_ inkling that the drugs he was peddling had the possible side effect of violent cannibalism, he’d chuck the stuff out himself. Frenzied murderlust really ain’t that good for business.”

It’s true. And Sam hates that cold, irrefutable logic is the closest they can come to trusting the demonae when everything they’ve got is riding on it. “So, back to Prime it is then,” he says sourly. He can’t seem to escape that fucking system no matter what he tries. Like the planet’s somehow managed to latch a leash around his neck, violently yanking him back to heel every single time he tries to run. Forcing him to relive his most painful memories as he’s tugged down the same streets over and over again.  _Sam Winchester, this is your life._  He shoves the morose thoughts aside and focuses back on Cas. “Alright then, set a course for Spectra. I guess we’re paying The Crossroads another visit.”

Cas nods briskly, but then he pauses, granting Sam a strange and unexpectedly soft smile before stepping away to follow the direct command. Sam only has a second to frown at their android’s weirdness before he suddenly realizes what Cas’s amusement was all about. He glances down to find his brother, sprawled out and completely unconscious, against Sam’s chest. Dead to the world as he lets out steady, rhythmic gusts of warm breath across the front of Sam’s shirt. Sam can’t stop a fond smile of his own from spreading across his face at the sight, and he’s sure he looks just like Cas did not two seconds ago. He racks his brain as he runs over the memories of the last few days, but can’t recall Dean taking even a moment to himself for a short nap. He must have conked out almost instantaneously, his body just shutting down from sheer exhaustion now that the worst of it was over. Sam sweeps a careful hand over his brother’s sleeping shoulders and tries to subtly adjust himself into a more comfortable mattress. He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing—it’s a flip from their typical position—but Sam’s determined to be just as good of a pillow as Dean usually is, if not better.

He’s just about settled into his best attempt at comfy when the muted sound of footsteps make their way back into the main quarters. “We should reach Spectra in a few hours,” Cas says warmly. “Would you like me to transfer Dean to the bed?”

And as hilarious as it always is watching Cas lift Dean’s full-grown ass without breaking a sweat, Sam doesn’t want that right now. “Nah,” he says softly, doing his best not to disturb his brother. “I’m good. Feels like Dean could use this right now, y’know?”

Cas smiles indulgently at him. And then he beeps. Loudly.

“Hey,” Sam scolds quietly. “C’mon, man. Shh.”

The angel frowns, then shakes his head like he’s trying to knock his circuits back into place. “I apologize. That was unintentional.” Another short, shrill beep pierces the cabin, and Cas twitches a little as he alters something internally. “There,” he says firmly. “I’ve muted my exterior volume. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“You need a check-up or something?” Sam whispers. “We can get Dean to take a look at you when he wakes up.”

Cas shakes his head reassuringly, holding out a hand before Sam can get up. “My levels are fine, but I’ll run some diagnostics just in case. Nothing to worry about.”

Sam eyes the angel for a bit, but he’s feeling kind of exhausted himself. His eyes are burning from when he’d sobbed them out a couple hours ago, and Dean’s weight is surprisingly comforting, and he _really_ doesn’t want to move. “Alright,” he says dubiously. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Cas says firmly. He turns to make for the cockpit, then stops, catching Sam’s eyes over his shoulder. “A short REM cycle would be beneficial for you as well. If you’d like to sleep, I can keep watch over the ship.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam watches the android step away, then lowers his gaze back to the top of his brother’s head. The short, tawny spikes of Dean's hair are lightly brushing the underside of Sam’s chin with every breath he takes, but Sam can’t bring himself to move away. Instead, he tucks in even closer, resting his head fully against Dean’s and letting his eyelids grow heavier. They’re safe now. Cas is watching the ship, they’ve actually got something of a plan thrown together, and he's starting to feel okay for the first time in almost three days. Sam breathes in the familiar scent of his brother’s hair gel and closes his eyes. He's asleep before the contented smile can even fade from his lips. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Crowley’s tie pin is a stylized fork.

Sam’s never noticed that before. Of course, he’s never really had the opportunity until now, bored out of his mind and resting his chin on his hand as he lets the tense sniping of the other two men in the booth wash over him. Sam guesses that the pin makes sense, what with Crowley being a _restaurateur_ and all, but the vocation badge seems a little uncharacteristically unimpressive for a demonae of Crowley’s caliber—or dramatics. Maybe even cartel kings have to play by some rules. It keeps tugging at Sam’s attention though, and he tilts his head a little, curious as to why it’s bugging him. When he squints, the three plain tines do almost make it look more like a pitchfork than a dining one. But that seems a little oddly esoteric. What’s the point? Sam lets out a snort as his brain finally catches on. Because of _Hell_. Cute. He rolls his eyes, wondering which job it’s actually supposed to represent. Or maybe it’s both. Crowley’s clever like that.

“Are you seriously telling me that you have no clue why we’re here?” Dean asks suspiciously.  _Again_. It’s one thing to keep your bases covered, but Dean has been intentionally grounding balls since they got here.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Crowley drones, looking bored as all get-out. His eyes had started to glaze over after Dean had asked a variation of that same question for the fourth time, and Sam’s almost positive that the demonae’s blasé reaction, in and of itself, is the most telling proof for his ignorance of the whole conspiracy. Mostly, he’s surprised that Crowley is even still patient enough to hear them out despite Dean’s irritatingly cyclical third degree.

His brother narrows his eyes, like he’s still not entirely sure of Crowley’s trustworthiness, and Sam gives up on waiting the stubborn idiots out, choosing instead to let his attention wander across the rest of the main room. The Crossroads is weirdly innocuous in the daytime. Without the dim ambiance and writhing bodies all over the place, it mostly just looks like any other restaurant before opening hours. Delicate motes of dust dance in the artificial light beaming in from the arched windows and Sam lazily watches them drift down to the lacquered floor until his eyes cross. The ironwork chairs are all upside down and tetrised together on top of the tables, and other than a small cluster of Crowley’s back-up lurking against the far wall, they’re completely alone in the cavernous ballroom.

“Oh, for Vlyznar's sake,” Crowley finally snaps, voice echoing sharply in the empty space. “Why don’t you _tell_ me, Dean? And then we can all go back to our extraordinarily busy lives.” He rubs a hand down his face and pins his brother with a haggard look. “You were the ones busting down my doors this morning, so desperate for an audience. You’ve got one. Speak.”

Dean gives Crowley one last probing glare, then finally seems to cave. “We’ve got some information.” He throws a quick glance over his shoulder, then lowers his voice, with a deliberately feigned wariness for the benefit of Crowley’s bouncers. “About what we were talking about _before_ ,” he stage-whispers. It should be loud enough for the bodyguards to hear. They need the information to spread fast as possible. No better way of getting that to happen than making people believe that it’s the exact opposite of what they want.

Crowley levels them both with an even gaze. “And that would be?”

Sam tilts his head toward the demonae with a brief raise of his eyebrows. “ _Croatoan_ ,” he says, stretching the word out and making sure his voice is just a hair louder than necessary. “Ringing any bells?”

Crowley’s expression immediately smoothes into a well-practiced mask of cool disinterest. His professional poker face has no flaws. He looks about as calm and impartial as a marble statue—which means that underneath, he must be champing at the bit to get at the new info. “Ah, of course,” Crowley replies smoothly. “How could I possibly forget?” He laces his fingers together over the tabletop and pins them with his creepily monochrome stare. “So what exactly, pray tell, has got you boys all in a tizzy?” he asks, tongue hissing at the perfect articulation.

“What would you say,” Dean starts lowly, leaning in over the table, “if we happened to have gotten our hands on a vaccine for Croatoan?”

“I’d say that a sudden miracle cure seems rather out of the blue.” Crowley narrows his eyes skeptically. “And surprisingly above your pay grade.”

“It’s the truth,” Sam says. “And we’re willing to give you first go at it if you can promise a fair spread of that same information across the rest of the colonies.”

The demonae stares at them for a second longer, clearly hesitant to believe them, then he casually leans back against the padded leather behind him, drumming his fingers against the ironwork. “And what do _I_ get out of this arrangement? I throw your little message out across the stars, and in return—?”

“Trust me,” Dean says tightly. “This is gonna _directly_ benefit you.” He shrugs and lets a slow, Cheshire Cat smile curl over his face. “Or anyone else we give first draft pick to. Your choice. ‘Knowledge is power’ and all that.”

“It’s a good deal,” Sam adds when Crowley still looks just the slightest bit wary, pushing up against Dean’s shoulder to present a united front. “And there’s absolutely no downside for you.” He lifts an eyebrow and pushes his luck. “Going once…”

“Fine,” the demonae concedes quickly, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “Fair enough, I suppose you’ve earned the benefit of my doubt.” He clears his throat and fixes them with a perfectly cordial stare. His professional one. His _pleasure doing business with you_ smile. “So, what _is_ this mystery fix you just so happened to stumble upon?”

“Demon Blood,” Sam says simply. He lets his statement hang in the air, continuing to meet Crowley’s sudden look of blankness with one of calm sincerity. “We’re telling the truth. One hundred percent guarantee it works or your money back.”

Dean tosses him a grin. “And the best part is, you’ve got buckets of the stuff here already.”

“My…” Crowley purrs skeptically, “that _is_ convenient.”

“It’s true, Crowley. _Any_ DB user has complete and total protection against the Croatoan Virus.” Sam shoves out of his seat, making room for Dean to stand as well. “You can test it all you like, whether you believe us or not. Just as long as you remember your end of the bargain.”

“Yes, of course.” The demonae gracefully rises to meet them, dress heels clicking against the perfectly waxed floor. “I’ll make sure and send up a few smoke signals as soon as possible. I will—of course—take your advice and run my own experiments first. You understand.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Dean says dryly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just make sure the word gets spread. Don’t care how, long as it’s fast.”

Crowley nods again, and Sam runs an eye over the demonae lurking at the fringes of the room. They’d managed to be loud enough that at least a few of them had clearly overheard their ‘private’ conversation. The info on Demon Blood’s gonna fly way faster than Crowley can rig up a few trial runs, and Sam can’t help but wonder if he’s aware of the fact. The King of Hell isn’t an idiot. Maybe the underground rumor mill will churn out some early business, whether the treatment’s officially FDA-approved or not.

“Dean,” Crowley says suddenly, cutting through the cautious silence with a single word. “Why don’t you head up to the bar? I’ll have my boys pour you out a pint for the road. On the house, of course,” he adds.

“Well that’s _shockingly_ kind of you,” his brother drawls sharply. Utterly uncharmed. “Didn’t peg you for the charitable type.”

Crowley grins like an okami caught in a child's butterfly net. “Not charity— _recompense_. I appreciate the tidbit. Least I can do.”

Dean affords the demonae a lingering, suspicious stare, then slowly turns on his heel and makes his way for the bar area—dubious or not, Sam’s brother has never been one to turn down a free drink. He almost wants to shake his head at the endearing obtuseness of it all. It’s a wonder that Dean’s never woken up in some organ trader’s cargo hold, missing a few pieces. Sam’s only a half step behind him, when he’s suddenly held back by a firm grip on his arm. Inhumanly strong.

“Hang on a bit,” Crowley says under his breath. “I’ve got a treat for you as well.” Sam hesitates at the offer, glancing up to catch Dean’s eyes from where he’s paused halfway across the ballroom. “Don’t mind us,” Crowley casually calls out to his brother, the epitome of guileless calm. “Just gonna have a little chat with Colossus here. I’ll have him back in two shakes.” Dean doesn’t move a muscle until Sam gives him a cursory nod, then proceeds to slowly continue across the room—but he keeps sneaking back vigilant glances every few steps or so.

“What do you want, Crowley?” Sam asks dully, once Dean’s out of earshot.

The demonae chuckles at his words, gesturing back for one of his lackeys to bring him something from another corner of the restaurant. “It’s not what I want, moose. It’s what _you_ want.” Crowley finally collects his bauble from the solid wall of scowling muscle, then presses the cool bit of glass into Sam’s hand. “On me—as a gesture of my gratitude.”

Sam frowns and uncurls his fingers to peer at his mysterious reward, sucking in a sharp, shocked breath once he realizes what _exactly_ he has nestled in his fist. His mouth immediately goes dry and every single muscle in his entire body tenses rigid at the small vial of Demon Blood glaring judgmentally back at him. Sitting bright red and brazen in the center of his palm. “…Why?” Sam asks breathlessly, once he can finally find the words.

Crowley lets out an amused huff of air, shifting back on his heels to wave his flunky away. “Because you and your brother are my very favorite frenemies. Can’t help it.” The demonae’s eyes flick down to Sam’s hand, then back up to his face. “Go on,” he presses, “there’s a lad.”

He shouldn’t. Sam can’t do this. He _can’t_. He’d promised himself. Over and over. Every second of every day. He’s been clean for years. _It feels like centuries._  But…it _did_ just save his life. Could save thousands of lives. How could something so helpful and necessary be bad? How could something so _vital_ be bad when Sam needs it so much? He’s always needed it. Can already feel it pumping through his veins as he dares to imagine letting it inside of him again. How the beveled needle will feel punching in. How the immediate hiss of numbness will cut through all of the terror and worry like a laser blade through vapor. How the strength will coil around every one of his muscles, hot and steady and powerful. No fear. No hesitation. No _pain_.

“You— You won’t tell Dean,” Sam eventually forces out, voice strung too thin to just be nerves. Reedy under the want and the guilt.

Crowley smiles warmly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He gives a subtle tilt of his head toward the vial in Sam’s palm and nudges his fingers closed around their little secret. “Just between us girls.”

“But…why?” Sam asks again, hopelessly. Struggling to wrap his thoughts around the last seven seconds. Nothing is making sense anymore, and with the blinding splash of brilliant crimson tempting and tugging at him, Sam feels like the decision-making part of his brain has been wrapped up in a heavy layer of fog.

“Well, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” Crowley tosses back calmly. “I thought this was a better way of showing my appreciation than a free drink coupon. I’m just feeding your particular addiction, same as your brother. Nothing wrong with a vice, love.” He shrugs and gestures over to where Dean is quickly draining the dregs of his beer at the bar. “But if you’d prefer something else…”

“ _No_ ,” Sam hisses, fist tightening around the hypo. “No, I—” He clears his throat and tries again. Attempts to sound like a sane, calm, rational adult. He thinks he manages to hit two out of the four. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“Good,” Crowley says. “Glad we could come to an accord.”

“You two done talking about boys?” Dean’s voice grumbles from behind his shoulder. Too close. He hadn’t even heard his brother walk over. Sam’s hand snaps shut around the vial in his palm and he flicks his terror-glazed eyes over Dean’s face, but his brother’s expression seems to be mostly bored—maybe a little irritated that he wasn’t invited to the party. No hint of anger or betrayal at Sam’s purposeful teetering over the edge of the wagon. “’Cause we got shit to do if you’re done here,” Dean says sternly, with an additional glare that’s clearly meant for Crowley’s benefit.

The demonae accepts the hint graciously, throwing Sam a quick, covert smile before twirling his fingers out at his brother in a half-hearted salute. He strolls away without a word, practically whistling to himself as he rounds up his entourage, and Sam marvels at Crowley’s calm display when he can’t help feeling like the entire place has just had all of the oxygen sucked out of it.

“The hell was that all about?” Dean asks gruffly, trying his hardest to sound like he couldn’t care less.

Sam clears his throat as his fingers twitch guiltily. “Nothing. Just—” He stalls as best he can, letting the wheels fly in his brain. “He offered me a job,” Sam blurts out clumsily—first thing he can think of.

Dean laughs out loud at the unexpected statement. “Seriously? A job _here?_  Think you got the short end of the stick on _that_ one, little brother.” He playfully nudges at Sam’s shoulder and tilts his head back toward the bar. “Want me to buy you a cosmo instead?”

“No,” Sam says hoarsely. Too seriously. Clearly not taking the bait. Dean picks up on the uncharacteristic reaction—that Sam isn’t playing off or rolling his eyes at the joke in his usual way—and his eyebrows furrow in concern as he leans in, trying to parse out what’s changed in the last few minutes. But Sam holds firm, projecting as much outward innocence as he can while his thoughts are busy whirling through his head like a Class-3 particle storm. He swallows again past the extreme cotton mouth and shoves his hand into his vest pocket, hiding the hypo from any possible prying eyes. “Let’s just go, alright?”

Dean gives him another skeptical once-over, but grudgingly lets the weird moment go. “Alright,” he says, lightly patting a hand against Sam’s upper back. “Let’s get you out of here before you start flying apart at the seams, huh?”

Sam lets out the breath he’d been holding for far too long. His chest aches with the exhale. That was easy— _way_ too easy—and the guilt-ridden part of him flares up like there’s a swarm of rust termites churning in his gut. Like Dean should have caught him. Like he _deserves_ to be caught. “Yeah,” Sam says quietly. “Good plan.”

Dean steers him past the bar, studiously ignoring the off-duty bartender’s attempts at silent flirting, and out into the exit hallway. Sam almost wants to let the poor girl know that she’s wasting her time. His brother may have dragged his dick through almost every possible variation of female species in the known universe, but never a demonae. Not once. It’s the eyes, Sam thinks as they clear the main doors, they always put Dean off.

Sam swallows past the knot in his throat and tries to center himself back on _normal_. It’s too quiet. His brother’s gonna realize something’s wrong if he doesn’t speak soon. Small talk, that’s what they need. Banter. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking, by the way?” Sam attempts roughly.

But Dean doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness, simply raising an eyebrow at the admonition. “What? You’d prefer me to pour it over some cereal first? ‘Cause I think we’re out of Choco-Rockets, man.” He smiles at Sam’s subsequent eye roll, then throws an arm around his neck and squeezes. “You wanna stop by the markets on the way back to the ship?” he teases obnoxiously. “I could get you those disgustingly tasteless nutrition pellets you like so much.”

Sam can’t help his grin at the familiar prodding. Immature posturing aside, Sam’s so goddamned happy to have his brother alive and well that he’d probably even welcome a noogie right now—and he’s pretty sure Dean feels the same. “Breakfast of champions, man,” he insists playfully. “With no disrespect meant to _beereal,_ of course.” Sam allows himself to relax at his brother’s ensuing laugh. His heart rate slowly edges back to normal as he rubs his palms over his jeans, letting the hypo burn a hole in his pocket. Dean’s not gonna find out, so it doesn’t matter. And it’s just gonna be this one time. A tiny reward for thwarting Enoch’s plan by surviving. Only once. Sam deserves that. No one will ever have to know.

The wrist slung loosely over his shoulder flashes, and Sam taps at his brother’s hand to let him know of the incoming message. Dean groans as he pulls his arm back to accept the call, and Sam wonders who it is. Bobby maybe, calling back after the breathless voicemail of relief they’d left him last night. Sam watches as Dean flips the volume back on, surprised his brother actually had the courtesy to set his cybernetics to silent during their little meeting with Crowley, then smiles to himself as Dean rolls his neck in overdramatic exasperation while he waits for the line to connect. More likely, he’d just forgot.

“ _Dean_.” That’s Cas’s voice, and Sam nudges closer so he can peek at the pop-up over his brother’s shoulder. “Are you finished yet?” the angel asks sternly. “You told me that you would be no more than an hour and it has been precisely…sixty- _nine_ minutes since you and Sam left. Do you require assistance?”

“Oh my god, Cas,” Dean says. “I was giving you a rough estimate, man. What’s up with the OCD act?”

Cas twitches at the mild jibe. “ _Because_ ,” he snits curtly, “the last time you went off alone, Sam came back with a lethal virus. When I let you two leave unaccompanied _again_ , you both failed at retrieving a cure and returned with an idiotic suicide pact to boot.” The angel visibly collects himself, then calmly proceeds to lay out his argument. “Bobby was correct in rebuking me for not being there at your time of need,” he says. “From here on out, I think it would be much more prudent of me to come along with you on your excursions.”

“Dude, are you serious?” Dean starts walking again, attention on the holo-screen as he heads for the ship, and Sam stumbles as he tries to keep up. “That was a one-in-a-billion fluke, Cas. Having a freaking _angel_ ,” he hisses the word under his breath, “skipping at our heels is gonna be way more of a target painted onto our backs than us flying solo.”

“I was constructed for subterfuge,” Cas responds calmly. “No organic will be able to tell me apart from any other human bystander.”

Sam sucks at his teeth as he bows under their android’s logic. “He’s kinda got a point there, Dean.”

His brother whips his head around to glare at him, shocked at the perceived betrayal. “No, he does not have a _point_ ,” he snits. Then he focuses his ire back on Cas. “ _Organics_ are not the ones I’m worried about.”

“Any other angels we come across would probably recognize _us_ just as soon as Cas,” Sam says, interrupting again. “Especially now.”

“Exactly,” Cas preens from the other side of the screen. “And as your guardian, it is my duty to make sure you two are safe from harm. There will be no more upsetting health scares on my watch.”

Dean groans, looking for all the world like he wants to bash his head against the nearest lamppost. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You are not our _guardian_.”

“Of course I am,” the angel insists, and he almost sounds a little offended at the brush-off. “I am composed of heavy-duty, insular material perfect for protecting you and your brother against any and all physical attacks. I also have the appropriate, built-in weaponry to go on the offense if the need should ever arise.”

“You are our robot,” Dean hisses. “You’re a friggin’ _blender_ , man.”

“Don’t listen to him, Cas,” Sam calls supportively over his brother’s shoulder. “You’re a vital part of our crew and we appreciate you very much.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean mutters under his breath, then gives his pop-up the stink eye. “We’ll talk about this later,” he says, then forcibly cuts off the call, hunching his shoulders and leaving Sam scrambling to catch up as he legs it to Prime’s docks.

The second they make it back up the gangway and onto the Impala, Sam makes a beeline for their android. “He didn’t mean it,” he says soothingly. “And _I_ think it would be a great idea for you to come with us.”

Cas nods placidly, clearly comfortable enough with Dean’s intermittent mood swings to not take it personally. “An old adage imparts that there is ‘safety in numbers’,” he says resolutely. “And if we are to confront Enoch Enterprises on their own turf, then it stands to reason that we should attempt to be as safe as possible.”

Sam snorts at the sincerity of the angel’s reasoning. “Yeah, that’s a good idea, Cas.”

“Or it’s a _terrible_ idea,” Dean calls from where he’d disappeared into the kitchen hallway. He drags himself back out, arms crossed and a dehydrated jerky stick dangling from his mouth, as he shoves one grumpy shoulder against the wall. “One angel on our side ain’t gonna do squat against fucking _legion_.”

“Well it’s better than not having him,” Sam counters. “It’s not like we even have much of a plan at this point. What’s the harm in bringing Cas along?”

Dean’s eyes bulge out of his head as he saws at the air with his hands. “What’s the _harm?"_ he repeats. “The harm is that if another synthetic recognizes him, he’s gonna get fucking _dismantled_. You think the angels are gonna let the whole thing slide once they find out he’s alive? That he’s working with _us?”_  Dean steps forward, poking Sam hard in the chest with an adamant finger. “We’ve gotta be number one on their shit list right now. _Worse_ , if they find out that you’re alive and we just tattled to Crowley about the DB.” He throws a wild hand out to include Cas in his diatribe. “Not to mention, we have no idea why Cas was even junked in the Pit in the first place. Who knows what kind of heinous angel crime he committed that got him decommissioned and tossed there? They’d probably shut him down on sight, just on principle. He tags along with us, he’s _dead._ ” Dean cuts off with a strangled sound, and then the following silence filters down around them awkwardly.

“Dean,” Cas says eventually. Fondly. “I care a great deal for you both as well. And I can assure you that your concerns about my well-being are noted and appreciated.”

“Goddammit,” his brother groans under his breath, probably more embarrassed than anything else. Sam smiles and deliberately places an affectionate hand on the back of Dean’s neck, just to poke the bear. Dean elbows him in the stomach and goes back to attacking his jerky.

“But we’ll need as much help as we can get if we are to succeed against Enoch,” the angel continues. “My assistance will likely provide a great deal more support than risk.”

Dean glares at Cas from across the length of the room for a long while before he finally gives up. Most likely out of sheer mortification. “Fine,” he mutters sourly. “You can come blundering to your death with us on our stupid suicide mission. Just stop fucking flashing at me. It’s giving me a headache.”

Sam frowns, and then flicks his gaze back and forth between them. “What are you talking about?”

Cas just gives him a clueless shrug of his own.

“I’m talking about the fucking _blinking_ ,” Dean says again. “It’s annoying as shit. And you’re not allowed to use that as an arguing tactic again,” he orders, pointing a stern finger at the android. “Seriously. Off the table.”

Cas blinks at Sam, clearly just as confused as he is, and then his irises suddenly flash a piercing blue. Sam startles at the bright burst of light, but Cas remains completely still. No reaction at all. He tilts his head at Sam, apparently completely oblivious to the grace currently leaking from his eyeballs. “What?” he asks innocently.

“Um…Cas?” Sam starts forward a step, holding a cautious hand out. “Your face is, uh…blinking, man.”

The angel frowns. “Are my eyelid mechanisms not in order?” He reaches up to splay a few fingers over his face, but doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for. “They appear to be fine.”

“No, I mean your _grace_ ,” Sam says slowly. “It’s like, lighting up from the inside.”

“You’re not doing that on purpose?” Dean asks, suddenly striding forward in concern. He closes in on Cas, grabbing his jaw and shifting his face from side-to-side. “You notice this earlier?” he tosses back to Sam.

“No.” Sam moves closer to get a better look, trying his best not to freak their robot out. “Do you feel okay, Cas?”

“I’m fine,” he responds calmly. Then he flashes again. “I’ve told you, all my levels are at functioning at optimum capacity. I doubt that there’s a problem.”

Dean grunts under his breath as he fumbles around at the back of Cas’s head. “Well, if you can’t feel it, maybe that’s part of the problem.” Sam tries to project his best look of utter reassurance at the angel until Dean finally lets out a noise of discovery. “What the fuck, Cas?” he chides. “Your exterior volume’s been shut off. You do that?”

Cas nods, then quickly stills once Dean scolds him for moving while his fingers are lodged in his skull. “There was an aberrant beeping earlier,” he explains. “You were asleep and Sam expressed distress at the noise waking you.”

Sam can feel his face flush red as Dean cranes his neck around to glare at him. “I didn’t mean for him to fuck with his system,” he says sheepishly. “I just thought it was a maintenance thing.”

Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation and flicks something with his hand. “There,” he says, flipping the port shut. “That’s what the flashing was. It’s some kind of back-up notification system for when you’re on mute.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and backs away to get a better look.

They both jump as Cas unexpectedly lets out a high-pitched beep.

Sam hunches his shoulders in as his brother raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah,” he answers meekly. “Like that.”

Dean frowns, scratching at the stubble on the side of his face as he contemplates the issue. “So, you got any idea why you’re suddenly playing alarm clock?” he directs at Cas.

The angel shakes his head. “This has never happened before,” he states. “If there is a malfunction, I am ignorant of the cause.”

“What does it feel like?” Sam asks, curious. “Can you even tell?”

Cas’s brow furrows as he focuses on concentrating inward. There’s another shrill beep after a few seconds, and he hums a little in reaction. “The sensation is extremely subtle,” he says, “but it does feel like a tug of sorts.” He frowns again. “Like I’m being summoned almost.”

“Summoned where?” Dean asks ominously. “And who the fuck has access to your system?”

The angel suddenly twitches violently, the beeping cutting out as he flashes again. “I have a new voicemail,” he says informatively—and Sam’s about ready to check if they’ve somehow managed to slip into some dimension of random weirdness.

“A voicemail from _who?”_ his brother asks darkly. “What the fuck is going on around here?” That one seems to be directed to the universe at large, but Cas ignores him as he flips on his answering machine—and then a posh, male voice rings out throughout the cabin.

“—because I was supposed to do this yesterday and G.I. Barbie will have my head if I… Oh, bloody hell. Is this thing on?” There’s a light, girlish giggle from somewhere in the background of the recording, and then the sound of hands sliding across skin. “Shh, darling,” the first voice urges playfully. “Why don’t you go and keep our other company _entertained_ until I’m finished here, hm? Wouldn’t want him getting lonely, would we?” The woman replies unintelligibly, and then her voice dims in volume as the speaker shoos her away from his com-link. “…Alright, here we go,” he starts back up, clearly going for some attempt at professional this time—or as professional as a disembodied mystery stalker can get over what sounds like some sort of giggling pillow-fight going on in the background. “Hi, Cassie!” the voice lilts cheerfully. “Did you miss me?” Sam chuckles under his breath at the chummy greeting. Okay, scratch that. So much for professional. “I’m sending you a lovely little party invite. Quite urgent, I’m afraid. So RSVP ASAP, and BYOB—you get the picture. Coordinates are attached. See you soon.”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment of silence.

—and then the speaker jumps back onto the line. “Oh, whoops,” he says hastily. “My bad. It’s about Michael. So, right. Absolutely important, okay? See you when you get here.” Then another series of muffled clicks and one more, “So _impatient_ , love—” before the recording cuts off midway through a deep, masculine laugh.

“Friend of yours, Cas?” Sam asks, stifling a confused laugh of his own.

Cas shakes his head at him with a helpless look. “I swear to you that I have never heard that voice before. It doesn’t match up against _any_ of the vocal patterns I have saved to my databanks.” His eyes flash, normally this time, as he spins through his archive again. “I have absolutely no idea how this man knew me by name. Or even how he was able to contact my direct line.”

Sam runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, he did say he knew something about Michael. Maybe we should go?”

“So, this is Michael as in _Shurley?”_ Dean says dryly.

Sam makes a face at the weird question. “Why? Do you know a different one?”

“If the caller does have some information on Michael Shurley,” Cas interrupts, “then perhaps it would benefit us to speak with him.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that ain’t suspicious at all,” Dean gripes. “Some random informant—who knows your _name_ , by the way,” he adds, jabbing a finger at the angel, “just happens to have the exact info we need, right when we need it, completely out of nowhere?” He throws his hands up in the air. “Sure, that sounds kosher.”

Sam worries at his bottom lip as he thinks the situation over. “Okay,” he starts cautiously, “so maybe it’s a trap.”

“ _Maybe?”_ Dean snits, and Sam ignores him.

“It’s true, we could be heading straight into an ambush.” His brother nods mockingly at the display of common sense, but Sam continues on. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Sam, come on,” Dean says wearily. “You know there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Not in our lives, at least. You really wanna just go running headfirst into this thing?”

He shifts a little under his brother’s steely stare. “Well, we could go and just…not be stupid about it.” Dean’s cocked eyebrow very eloquently informs him that he doesn’t think that’s possible. “I’m serious,” Sam says. “We’ll scope it out first and see if everything seems legit.” He turns to Cas, clenching and unclenching his fists as he forms a rudimentary plan. “Do you think you could scan for Enoch’s frequencies before we landed?”

Cas is nodding eagerly before Sam can finish asking the question, clearly already on board with his plan. Probably because he’s even more curious about their mystery caller than Sam is. “That should be extremely simple,” he says assuredly. “I’ll be able to tell if any angels are using long-form waves in the immediate area. If there are no communication signals, then we’ll know that this summons is _not_ a trap set by Enoch.”

They both turn to blink at Dean—who just tosses his hands into the air in angry concession. “Fine,” his brother grumps. “We’ll check it out.” Then he stabs a finger in Sam’s face. “But anything—I swear to god, _anything_ —happens that sets my Spidey Sense off, we’re outta there. That second. Understood?”

“Absolutely,” Sam promises, holding his palms out defensively. “Just say the word and we’re vapor.”

“Good,” Cas says contentedly. “Then I’ll set the autopilot for Zelia.”

Dean directs one last reluctant glare toward the both of them, and Sam isn’t able to resist leaning in and pressing a playful kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll be there and back before you know it,” he says reassuringly. His brother’s scowl doesn’t falter for a nanosecond.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Nice digs.”

It’s the first thing Dean has said since they docked planetside, and Sam can’t help the glance of surprise at his brother’s voice. “In the market for a timeshare?” he teases lightly, grinning as they make their way into the lobby of the high-rise apartment building before them. “I’ve heard the underground music scene is pretty good here.”

Dean just grants him a dull stare, his good mood evaporating just as quickly as it formed. “Are you deliberately messing with me?”

“Actually,” Cas says helpfully, “Zelia Major is most well-known for its nightlife options.” He leads the way onto the ground floor’s swanky elevator, then politely holds a hand over the closing door until they manage to pack themselves in. “There are a fair number of clubs that the g-net can recommend if you’re interested.”

“No, Cas,” Dean says like acid. “We are not going _clubbing_.”

“What room did the coordinates say?” Sam asks again, watching as the display buttons light up a brilliant gold as they pass by each floor.

“Penthouse floor, Suite 7,” Cas responds pleasantly.

“Y’know, the richer this guy is, the less it makes me want to trust him,” Dean gripes from his corner. “Enoch’s probably paying him off to do all the work of catching us for them. And I bet he gets a big, fat extra bonus deposit for throwing Cas in the bag too.”

Sam stifles a smile as he rolls his eyes. “We already checked for Enochian interference and Cas said there was nothing. Right, man?”

The angel nods, bobbing his head a little to the muted elevator Muzak. “Absolutely nothing,” he confirms. “Complete radio silence. No audio signals in or out of this entire area.”

“Wait—” Sam says, frowning. “Nothing at all? Not even commercials or music or something?”

“My Spidey Sense is starting to tingle,” Dean throws out, dry as desiccant.

“Don’t worry. Whatever is causing the radio blackout, it isn’t Enoch,” Cas says confidently. “It’s likely that an area as wealthy as this is simply able to afford an efficient sound dampener.”

Sam gnaws at his lip as doubt starts to creep in. “Yeah, but diminishers are for city sounds, Cas. Not ads and stuff. There should at least be commercials.”

Dean nudges a shoulder against his. “You think this is too hinky, we can be out the door right now,” he reminds him. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna object.”

Sam almost nods, but then Cas stares up at him with that pleading angel gaze of his and Sam breaks. “Let’s just talk to this guy,” he caves. “If it’s too weird in there, then we’ll split.”

“Yeah, alright fine,” Dean says grudgingly, and then the elevator dings for their floor.

They make their way down the hallway, but Cas doesn’t even get around to knocking on the appropriate apartment door before it swings wildly open and they’re yanked inside by a tawdry-looking blond man. “Yes, alright, hello,” he tosses out hastily, scattering the greetings like birdseed in the wind. “Sorry for the rude welcome, but you never know who might be lurking about in random corridors.” He stretches his neck out, peering into the hallway for a moment, then slams the door shut behind them, letting Sam finally get a good look at him.

And, honestly? The man looks pretty much exactly how his voice on Cas’s recording had sounded. The light hair and artfully-coiffed scruff speak to an attempt at conveying roguish charm, but the lines at the corners of his eyes reveal his age. Like the whole _live fast, die young_ thing he’s projecting is more bullshit than anything else. He’s wearing a thin, dark blazer, but the professional air is completely undercut by the rest of his tacky ensemble—mainly, the sleazy, rock star-esque chain looped around his neck. Sam can easily track the entire length of it because the neckline of his shirt is so low that he’s not sure why the guy even put in the effort to throw one on in the first place. Basically, either this dude’s an aging frontman or he’s going through a surprisingly early mid-life crisis.

“You made it,” the man crows pleasantly. “I was worried you'd taken a left at the emission nebula and gotten lost.” He grins expectantly at Cas for a few more silent seconds, then claps his hands in a carefree manner, blindly guessing at the cause for their hesitation. “Don’t worry, we’re completely alone here,” he assures them. “Michael can’t track _jack_ with the scrambler I’ve rigged up around the premises.”  _Well—_ Sam thinks— _that explains the noise blackout at least._  Rocker Guy blithely strides his way between him and Dean, palms together and fingertips pointed like he’s parting the Red Sea, and heads directly for a half-empty tumbler slowly leaving a ring on the desk behind a rather plush-looking velvet sofa. It’s more of a long end table really. The kind of completely superfluous furniture that rich people have solely as decoration. He snatches it up, then tilts the glass at them in a little toast. “So it’s just you and little old me here. All alone. No nasty eavesdroppers.”

Cas furrows his brow, sweeping his gaze over the holographic posters and expensive knick-knacks littering the walls. “You were the one who summoned me here, correct?”

The man tosses his head back and laughs out loud. “Oh, it is good to see you, Cassie,” he chuckles. “Even with that stick still up your ass.”

“I’m sorry,” the angel frowns. “Are we acquainted?”

“ _Acquainted_ ,” their host snorts. “Yes, well that’s a rather formal way of putting it, isn’t it? We go way back, you and I,” he grins cheerfully, leaning back to sit on the edge of the table. “Thick as thieves, really.”

“Okay, and how exactly is it that you know Cas here?” Dean interrupts rudely. “’Cause he can’t quite seem to remember you.”

“Oh, and you’ve brought your friends,” he coos, his attention finally pulled away from their android. He flicks his eyes between the two of them, actually acknowledging their presence for the very first time. “The Mafioso’s pet and the ex-con. How quaint.” Sam bristles violently at the reference to Lucifer and he can practically _feel_ Dean seething beside him. “Like father, like son, eh?” the man tosses to his brother, and Sam has to clamp a staying hand around Dean’s elbow before he can tear the guy’s throat out at the perceived insult to John.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says diplomatically—probably trying to distract Dean from his tunnel vision before he can break free of Sam’s hold. “I don’t remember you.”

Surprisingly, the man laughs again. “Well, of course you don’t, Cas. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sam just blinks at the statement, thoroughly confused now. “Okay, so who _are_ you then?” he asks. “And why did you call us here?”

“Balthazar,” the man replies smoothly. “Sorry about that, didn’t I mention?” He grins over the lip of his glass. “I’m Cassie’s brother.”

Dean snorts at the announcement. “Cas doesn’t have brothers,” he says bluntly. “And if you _actually_ knew him, you’d know that he’s—”

“What?” Balthazar interrupts. “An angel?” He turns back to Cas with a long-suffering look. “Not too quick on the draw, these two, are they?”

“You’re—?” Sam blinks at Cas, then back at Balthazar. “ _You’re_ an angel?” he says skeptically.

“Of course I’m an angel, you lunkhead,” Balthazar says with a roll of his eyes. “How else would I be able to contact Castiel here?”

Sam lets out a low breath and takes back every single assumption he’d made about the guy based on looks alone. Ash was right, perfect organic mimicry is fucking terrifying.

Dean, however, just growls at the reveal. “You said Enoch wasn’t involved,” he snarls at Cas, yanking his arm out of Sam’s grip. “That’s it, I’m calling an audible.” He lifts a finger and twirls it sharply. “Everyone out! Trip’s over!”

Balthazar doesn’t move from where he’s perched, still casually sipping his drink despite the sudden shouting. “Well, you are free to leave anytime you’d like, of course,” he says calmly. “But I can promise you that Enoch isn’t involved. Not _here_ , at least.”

“You just told us you were an angel,” Sam says warily, curiosity halting him in his tracks halfway to the exit.

“And I am,” Balthazar says. “But I most emphatically do _not_ work for Enoch Enterprises.”

Dean refuses to budge from his stance near the door, but Cas catches Sam’s eyes, seemingly as confused as he is. “You’re a rogue?” Cas clarifies cautiously. “Like…Anna?”

“And like _you_ ,” Balthazar adds. “Even if you don’t consider yourself one.” He smiles pleasantly, crow’s feet cutting lines into his face. “But you’re on the outs just as much as we are, Cassie.” The angel drains his glass, then rocks back up onto his feet, clapping a friendly hand to Cas’s arm as he heads over to the room’s tasteful liquor cabinet. “Oh, don’t look so shit about it,” he says cheerfully. “I’d rather be a free agent all by my lonesome than crammed into a boardroom with those stuffed-shirt assholes any day.”

“How did you escape?” Dean ventures from his area by the door, still clearly suspicious.

Balthazar snorts as he yanks a stopper out of a bottle. “I stole everything I could get my grubby, little hands on, and then I split. _Oh_ ,” he adds quickly, “—and I faked my own death. Surprisingly useful party trick, that.”

“So, you’re just some common thief?” Cas asks, and Sam thinks he sounds a little disappointed at the possibility. He guesses it would be a bummer if the first long-lost sibling he ever met turned out to be a crook.

“Common? No.  _Thief?”_  Balthazar lifts a hand and wiggles it a little, letting out a neutral sound.

Cas looks even more hangdog at that, and Sam can’t help but feel bad for the guy. “Alright, so you ran away from Enoch,” he interrupts. “Fine, let’s say we believe you. What are you doing here?”

“Sex, drugs, and _rock and roll_ ,” the synthetic sing-songs over his shoulder. “What else? I’m already out of Enoch’s good graces and, believe me, there’s no going back. So why not blow coke and jump on the bed?  _Carpe diem,_ as it were.” A few, feminine giggles drift out from underneath the closed bedroom door at the other end of the apartment and Balthazar freezes at being caught out. “Or _diems_ ,” he amends, fighting back a self-satisfied smile. “What’s Latin for ‘twelve’?”

“ _Duodecim_ ,” Cas replies, completely un-ironically.

“Interesting definition of ‘alone’ you’ve got there, Casanova,” Dean spits.

“What, the girls? They’re harmless.” None of them give an inch, and Balthazar lets out an overdramatic sigh to underscore the exasperated roll of his eyes. “Oh, come on,” he prods. “You’ve never felt like bedding a dozen different species at the same time?” Of course Dean has to make a stupid, contemplative face at that one and the angel grins as he tosses an ice pill into his glass. “I’m on shore leave, boys—luxuriating in every possible hedonism that the organic world has to offer. You really should try it sometime,” he says, finally spinning around and taking a sip. “Does wonders for the complexion.”

“You don’t have a complexion,” Dean says under his breath.

But Balthazar ignores him in favor of settling against the back of his expensive sofa. “By the way, Cas,” he asks conspiratorially. Like _now_ is the time for casual gossip. “How did you end up picking up these two? I have to admit, I thought you’d be coming alone.”

Cas shifts a little under the other angel’s stare, eyes unconsciously flicking to Dean before he snatches them back to center. “It’s not of import.”

“Ooh, there’s a story there.” Balthazar grins. “Some other time, maybe?”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Dean says, breaking the moment and not sounding sorry in the slightest. “We’re only here because you mentioned Michael Shurley. So what _I_ wanna know is how the fuck you found out that we were even interested in him in the first place.”

“Oh, of course,” Balthazar says apologetically, like the explanation had simply slipped his mind. “You stopped by Daddy’s house.” He crosses a leg over his knee, lounging calmly, like they’re discussing the weather. “You see, we’ve got a whole system rigged up to notify us anytime someone trips the perimeter grid. For his safety, of course. How’s he doing, by the way?” he suddenly directs at Cas, completely changing the topic. “I always mean to drop by for a visit, but it’s such a nightmare trying to make the scheduling work. Plus, there’s that whole ghastly amnesia business.” He shrugs casually. “You know how it is.”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Cas admits haltingly. “Sam and Dean were the only ones who spoke to him. They left me with the impression that he was,” the angel pauses as he searches for a polite word, “…frazzled.”

“Sure, sure. That sounds about right,” Balthazar says distractedly, tugging at a bit of lint on his barely-a-shirt. Then he turns his attention back to Dean. “Basically, you went snooping around asking enough questions about Enoch that my… _associates_ and I,” he says delicately, “figured it was about time that we let Cas in on our little family secret.”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, quickly growing tired of the angel’s meandering puzzles. “If the ‘big secret’ is that Shurley is Chuck’s kid, we already know. Chuck told us.”

Balthazar snorts around his mouthful of scotch, barely holding back a spit take before he finally manages to swallow. “Yes, alright,” he coughs mockingly. “True in a sense, I guess. Not the way I’d put it.”

“And how would _you_ put it?” Dean snarks dryly.

The synthetic wipes an imaginary tear of laughter from his eye, milking the drama as much as he can. “ _Michael_ is just as much Chuck Shurley’s son as I am—or Castiel here, for that matter.” He clinks his empty glass back onto the table beside him and laces his fingers over his knee, blinking at them expectantly. “Get it yet?”

Sam tosses his brother a quick glance, but Dean’s blank look of confusion does absolutely nothing to help his own. “So, you’re saying that Shurley—”

“ _Michael_ ,” Balthazar corrects him sternly. “Honestly, least you could do is get it right.”

Sam frowns at the strange censure. “Okay, then.  _Michael_ …is what, adopted? Not Chuck’s real kid?”

“Guess it’s not too farfetched to believe the guy never procreated,” Dean chuckles, nudging at Sam’s arm with his elbow. “Can’t say that one comes as a shocker.”

But Balthazar just tosses his head back with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, you two are absolutely hopeless,” he whines dramatically.

Dean colors at the insult. “Well, excuse me if your freaking Gollum riddles don’t make any goddamn sense,” he snits. “Why don’t you just fucking say what you mean then?”

“He’s implying that Michael is a synthetic,” Cas calmly interjects from where he’s been staring out the far window. He pulls himself away from the view to meet Dean’s gaze head-on. “…An angel.”

Sam abruptly chokes on air. Loudly. “ _What?”_ he forces out, spinning back to face Balthazar. 

“No fucking way,” Dean says, like the entire idea is ludicrous. “No fucking _way_ a synthetic takes over the entire government without anybody noticing. That’s insane. It’s _impossible_.”

Balthazar lifts his eyebrows. “Not only possible.  _Fact_. Cross my heart, et cetera, et cetera.”

An icy wall of understanding slowly begins to creep its way down Sam’s back at the statement. As unbelievable as it may seem, all the pieces are somehow locking themselves into place thanks to the new information. “Dean,” he whispers breathlessly. “It makes sense.”

His brother makes a face at him. “What? No, it doesn’t. This guy’s clearly off his fucking meds.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam presses. “Just think about it for a second. Why would a human want to eradicate all organics? Why would he blank Chuck’s brain like that instead of just offing him?”

He can see the dawning awareness start to filter into the edges of Dean’s eyes. “No way,” his brother repeats uselessly. “That’s—Sam, that’s crazy.”

“Why else would he try to freaking _murder_ _me_ the instant we started snooping around Enoch?” Sam bites out. “Unless he’s a goddamn _angel_ and he was worried we’d find out!”

Dean opens his mouth to argue again, then just stops, lips barely parted as he stands motionless and soaks in the information. 

They’re fucked. They are completely and totally _fucked_. Going up against an organic is one thing, even one as influential and powerful as Michael Shurley, but an angel? A perfect, weaponized machine with all the political pull of the Koch dynasty and the ingrained hardware of Robocop? If he can control the other angels—not just direct, but _control_ —then there’s nothing he won’t be able to do to them. If they step one foot out of line, Michael could laser their heads off without blinking an eye. If he finds out Sam’s still alive, he could fire off one of his thousands of assassins to blast a giant hole in his chest and no one will ever question it. If an angel smites you, your case doesn’t even get a trial. No one will ever believe Sam’s innocent. There’s no way he and Dean can take the fight to Enoch. They’re gonna have to go way off the grid. Hide out like Benny did. For the rest of their lives. And just _hope_ that the synthetics never find them. Or the ever-spreading croats.

Sam brings his gaze back up to meet his brother’s, and from the frantic look in his eyes, Dean seems to have come to the same dire conclusion that he has. “What do we do?” Sam whispers brokenly.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean eventually croaks. “We—we can _run_. We’re good at that. Find somewhere in the Outer Cluster. Shurley—” he breaks off to correct himself, “ _Michael_ already thinks you’re dead, so he won’t be looking.” Dean reaches out to grasp at the sides of his face, his grip just a shade too tight. Too desperate. “We can trade for supplies, stock up without a chit trail. No one will find us, okay?” He yanks Sam down to stare into his eyes for a moment of intensity. A promise. “We’ll be fine.”

“Glad you two are finally seeing reason,” Balthazar drawls from somewhere behind them, and Sam kind of wants to put a fist in the synthetic’s stupid face. “Now you understand why we were expecting Cas to come alone. No offense, boys,” he says, almost kindly, “but you might be a little out of your depth.”

“Are you expecting more company tonight, Balthazar?” The gruff non-sequiter shakes them all out of the moment.

“Why does it matter, Cas?” Sam asks dully, reluctant to pull his gaze away from his brother’s. It’s just another stab to the heart because he’ll really miss the guy. There’s no way they can take Cas with them, not if they need to fly under the angels’ radar. Sam manages to drag himself away from Dean for one last look at their crewmate. Least he can do before they disappear forever.

But Cas just turns back to face the rest of the apartment, expression as blankly serene as always. “Because there’s a battlecruiser idling in the visitor parking.”

Balthazar’s face goes instantly, _impressively_ pale for an android. He leaps up from his seat, striding across the room and yanking the curtains aside before Sam can even track the movement. “Oh, bloody hell,” he whispers, then snaps the drapes shut and sprints back across the floor.

“Hey,” Dean says worriedly, letting his fingers drift away from Sam so he can head off the chaotic angel suddenly flitting all over the room. Balthazar ignores him completely, arbitrarily snatching up bits of his belongings as he races by. “I said, _hey!”_ Dean barks, bodily spinning him around by his shoulder.

“You did,” Balthazar snaps back at him. “Twice. Good for you.” He jerks himself free and goes back to filling his arms with random junk. “That, out there,” he says, tilting his head at the window, “is an Enochian-class battlecruiser piloted by one of Enoch’s very best and very _deadly_  assassins.” Balthazar swivels his head around until he locks eyes on a leather satchel, then yanks it over and starts cramming his effects inside. “Now, _I_ plan on high-tailing it out of here before Raphael can cover me in grill marks, but if you’d prefer to loiter around while you wait for your _unbelievably_ painful deaths, please be my guests.”

“I thought you said Michael couldn’t track us here,” Sam accuses.

“He _can’t_. Which means he either had your ship followed here  _or_ he already knew where you were going to be.” Balthazar very pointedly glances toward where Cas is still hanging near the window. Then exaggeratedly tilts his head a couple of times until he and Dean finally get it.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, confused.

Dean glowers at the implication as he turns back to Balthazar. “Cas didn’t tell Michael where we were.  _He_ ain’t a traitor.”

“Well, _no_ ,” Balthazar drones, strapping his bag across his chest. “Obviously, Cas wouldn’t tattle on purpose.”

“For fuck’s sake, Balthazar!” Sam finally snaps. “Just use your goddamn words!”

“ _He_ ,” the android snits, jabbing a finger at Cas, “is an _angel_.” Then he points at himself. “ _I_ am also an angel. It’s how I was able to contact you in the first place. We’re on the same network—we _all_ are. Angel Radio, as it were.” Balthazar hefts up a heavy-looking vase and strides over to the window. “I thought that my scrambler would cancel out our basic, built-in signal, but clearly Michael’s somehow hooked up a separate bug. Which means it’s on a private _frequency_ ,” he explains hastily, heaving back and smashing the glass.

“What should we do?” Cas asks urgently. “I can run a scan to eliminate the bug, but we’ll have to escape this assassin first.”

Balthazar ducks a shoulder under the broken window frame. “Well, _I’m_ heading to the roof,” he says, throwing Cas a bloodless smile. “It’s a bit of a drop to the pavement below, but I’m certain my hydraulics can take it. You’re welcome to join me,” he offers pleasantly.

Cas balks at the suggestion. “Sam and Dean are human,” he scolds sharply. “They cannot survive a fall like that.”

“Invitation was for one, darling.”

“Seriously?” Dean snarls. “What about your _girls?_  You’re abandoning everyone here just to save your own ass?”

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s _you_ lot that Raphael’s after.”

“You’re just gonna leave us like this?” Sam asks, dumbfounded.

Balthazar lets out an annoyed sigh and hesitates for a moment, hanging half-out the window, silhouetted by the lights of the city below. “I am sorry, boys. Truly, I am. But I’m also far too fond of my own bacon to let it get smoked like this. Good luck with Uncle Raphy.” He climbs fully onto the frame, and the few remaining pieces of dangling glass fall free. “See you in another life, Cassie,” he says warmly. The angel gives them one last bob of his head, and then he swings himself out onto the terrace and makes a leap for the roof.

“Shit!” Dean yells, snapping a foot out to shatter one of Balthazar’s expensive sculptures.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Sam orders, yanking at his brother’s sleeve. “ _Dean_. Let’s go!”

Dean shakes himself out of it and follows Sam out the door, Cas bringing up the rear, as they tumble out into the hall and run for the exit. Sam gets to the elevator bank first, and then freezes as his brain locks up on him. This Raphael guy is gonna catch up to them any minute, but Sam has no idea if he’s riding up in an elevator or if he’s heading up the stairs. Sam jerks his gaze between the two options. Elevator or stairwell. It’s literally 50-50 at this point and there’s no way to know for sure.

“Fuck it,” Dean spits, taking the lead. “ _Stairs_. C’mon, move.”

It’s a smart plan. Even if the angel _is_ coming up that way, at least they won’t be trapped in a tiny box with the guy. Sam follows hot on his brother’s heels as Dean rounds the corner, and then yanks Cas through the door behind him as they race into the stairwell. Their boots echo thunderously off of the cheap, metallic walls as they take the steps three or four at a time, and Sam really _really_ hopes that Raphael took the elevator because there’s no way they’ll be able to get away without him noticing the fucking _tornado_ of noise they’re currently making. The three of them rocket down the steep spiral of steps for what seems like hours. Sam’s heart is doing its best to pound its way right out of his chest and he seriously starts rethinking the logic of choosing ‘stairs’ in a building this tall, when Dean suddenly slips in front of him, almost tumbling headfirst into the dark below. Sam catches up as best he can, quickly checking to make sure Cas is still close behind him, until he belatedly realizes why Dean had stumbled.

A man is standing, silent and ominous, on the flight directly across from them, just one floor below. His skin is so dark he almost blends into the sharp lines of his ebony-black suit, and white-hot lightning is slowly crackling around the edges of his fingers.  _Angel_ —Sam’s brain whispers dangerously. The assassin snaps his head up with whip-sharp precision and locks his pale blue gaze directly on the three of them. Sam is already inching back up the stairs, his feet moving of their own accord before his brain can even give the word, but Raphael simply raises an arm, hand out and facing them, as a blinding ball of pure energy slowly builds in the center of his palm. Sam freezes at the mounting grace, but Cas thinks faster. He snakes a lightning-quick hand around the back of Dean’s jacket and violently _wrenches_ him back just as a lethal surge of plasma obliterates the staircase right where his brother’s head used to be.

A high-pitched whine reverberates in Sam’s ears at the explosion, and he scrambles back up the crumbling steps the instant he can move again, shocked into reaction at the terrifyingly close call. Cas already has Dean hauled up onto his shoulder and is climbing onto the remaining railing by the time Raphael takes a single step toward them.

“What are you doing?” Sam shouts, voice still a little too loud in the aftermath of the blast. He coughs and waves away the choking particles of rock dust. “Cas, stop!”

The angel gives him an unreadable look, then steps off the railing, plummeting down into the stairwell below.

“Cas!” Sam yells after him, scrabbling to peer over the edge—petrified that all he’ll see is a broken pile of robot parts and his brother’s bones. But he lets out a huge exhale of relief at seeing that Dean is fine, kneeling on the concrete at Cas’s feet, as the android reaches back up to gesture at Sam. He had no idea they were almost at the bottom of the building. There’s maybe a forty-foot drop between where he is and the ground floor. Joint-shattering maybe, but not lethal.

“Sam, come on,” Cas calls up to him. “You’ll be fine.”

He twists his head back behind him to take in Raphael, still steadily making his way up to the broken landing Sam’s sprawled across. Like the fucking Terminator from those old, classic 2-D vids that their dad used to make them sit through. No rush at all. Completely certain that he’ll make it to Sam before he can get away.

“Sammy, fucking _jump!”_ Dean’s voice roars up at him.

And Sam can’t disobey when his brother sounds that upset. “Oh, mother _fucker_ ,” Sam mutters under his breath, fumbling to get a foothold on the edge of the creaking rail. Raphael is still slowly, unwaveringly making his way up the remaining steps, and Sam slams his eyes shut as he teeters over the edge of the metal siding. 

“Sam, now!”

“Jesus fucking _Christ!”_  Sam takes the last, insane step into oblivion just as Raphael lunges, snatching at the thin air behind him. He keeps his eyes scrunched closed—not wanting his own splintered limbs to be the last thing he sees—until a jarring, solid-steel grip violently forces all the air out of his lungs.

“Are you alright?” Cas checks, releasing Sam to tumble onto the cold floor below. He barely gets his feet back underneath him before the angel is sweeping his hands over anything he can reach. “Can you move?” he asks firmly, and Sam doesn’t even finish nodding before Cas is yanking one of Dean’s arms across his shoulders and leading the way out the door and onto the streets.

Sam starts to follow, then thinks better of it, racing back to slam the door shut behind them and latch the heavy crossbar into place, before scrambling after his crewmates. He manages to catch up fairly quickly, then takes in the painfully stilted way Dean is moving, even with their android’s help. “What happened?” he asks frantically.

“Fucker broke my goddamn leg,” Dean snarls. “One of the flying chunks of cement from the blast.”

“Cas, can’t you just heal it?” There’s a solid _thud_ from behind them, and Sam twists his neck back to glance at the stairwell door. Raphael probably jumped too.

“The bone needs to be set first,” Cas explains grimly, not wavering from his route to the ship. “A stem injection would heal the tissue damage around the wound without fixing the initial break.”

“Yeah, that sounds like my luck,” Dean spits under his breath.

They finally make it to the parking lot, a cursory sweep revealing that Raphael is nowhere in sight for the moment, and Sam tempts fate by appreciating the brief moment of respite. He expects Cas to head for the gangplank, but instead, he just drops Dean to the blacktop and kneels down beside him. “Where is it?” he asks sharply, and Sam is completely lost for a few seconds until he remembers the bug Balthazar mentioned earlier.

“Alright, just hold on,” Dean mutters, wincing as he shifts up on his good heel. He taps his cybernetics on, then sweeps the secondary locator in his wrist in broad swathes over Cas’s body.

There’s another _bang_ from behind them, like Raphael’s trying to smash through the door, and Sam bounces nervously on his toes as he does his best to play look-out.

“Where is it?” Cas urges, more intently this time.

“Give me a second!” Dean snaps. 

Another _bang_ , louder this time. “Dean!”

His brother’s cybernetics suddenly go haywire, lights flashing as he scans his wrist over a specific spot on Cas’s forearm. “Fucking _there!”_

Cas flips his palm open to produce a wicked-looking blade and rips into his skin without any hesitation. There’s a vicious spark, an electrical whine, and then the sharp snap of wires as he yanks a fair amount of circuitry out of his own arm. Oil—or brake fluid or whatever the hell Cas is made of—immediately starts pouring out from the open wound, drenching his sleeve black and dripping from his fingers onto the asphalt below. Cas stumbles a little as he tries to stand again, the sudden loss of pressure maybe, and Sam swoops in to pick up the slack with Dean, providing his shoulder as leverage so his brother can yank himself up. They manage one fumbling step toward the Impala before that crackling energy sound is back again.

“Sam!” Cas shouts, directing his attention to where Raphael is standing behind them, feet planted solidly and one glowing hand up and out again. The brilliant blue light builds, and Cas knocks them both out of the way as the blast of grace goes high, smashing directly into the hull of their ship—little arcs of lightning sparking and skittering over the frame before they finally disperse.

“Hey,” Dean barks, “you leave my Baby alone!”

“Dean!  _Jesus!”_  Sam shouts, flinging his arms across his brother’s chest before he can do something as suicidally stupid as going after an angelic assassin on one broken leg. “Cas, c’mon,” he bites out, and between the two of them they manage to heft Dean onto the ship before Raphael can recharge.

The instant they’re on board, Dean flings their hands off of him and makes a beeline for the cockpit. Cas races up to the side windshield, keeping an eye on the assassin outside. And Sam remains in the center of the room, at a complete loss for how to help.

“He’s climbing onto his ship,” Cas informs them from his makeshift crow’s nest.

“Which means he’s coming after us with a full armory,” Sam says. They still aren’t actually lifting off and flying anywhere, so Sam flicks his attention to their pilot. “Which means we should probably _go_ , Dean!”

His brother parodies back a mocking rendition of his own voice, fiddling with the remaining equipment that Raphael’s burst of grace didn’t destroy, then he slams a fist against the dashboard. “ _Dammit!_ ” he shouts, flinging a broken bit of plastic at the control panel.

Sam’s spine suddenly turns to ice. “What’s wrong?” he asks, jogging up to the cockpit.

“Fucking plasma blast blew out our optical navigation instruments,” Dean spits bitterly. “Plus, the autopilot is shot. Which _means_ ,” he says, dropping into place along the bench seat, “that I’ve gotta calculate our orbit determination manually if we don’t wanna end up blindly rocketing through the endless void until we starve to death. And I’m gonna need both hands for that with the systems offline.”

“He appears to be starting his ship,” Cas warns them, keeping up his running commentary. “A battlecruiser will take a little while to warm up, but we should leave as soon as possible. A head-start would be beneficial to us surviving this encounter.”

Dean reaches back to forcefully tug Sam down onto the seat beside him, and then glares at the dashboard as he goes about flipping switches. “You heard the man, Sammy. That puts you in charge of flight path control.”

Sam blinks at his brother’s single-minded puttering. “What?”

“ _Trajectory_ , Sam. Handling the goddamn yoke,” he explains, slapping Sam’s hand onto the control wheel, “and firing the thrusters.” Dean taps his cybernetics back on and starts inputting a stream of numbers. “I can’t operate the rudders with my busted leg, so that just leaves you, tiger.”

Sam’s eyes fly open as he wildly scrambles for an alternative. “ _Cas_ ,” he blurts out. “Cas can steer the Impala while you handle the orbit stuff.”

The aforementioned angel clears his throat behind Sam in a very human display of polite condescension. “I believe it would be wise if you allowed me to handle Raphael, Sam. If I were occupied with flying the spacecraft, and he should succeed in boarding us, then you would be forced to engage with the invulnerable, synthetic assassin all on your own.”

“Angel’s got a point,” Dean grunts.

“Dean, I have no _idea_ how to fly this thing.”

His brother doesn’t look up from his data-logging, frowning when he comes across a particularly troublesome reading. “You’ve taken the wheel before.”

“Yeah—with the _autopilot_ ,” Sam reminds him anxiously.

Dean lets out a short sigh, barely managing to tear his eyes away from the control panel to meet Sam’s gaze. “Look, we don’t have time to argue, man. Baby’s a smooth ride, okay? You’ll learn on the job.” He wraps a hand around the base of Sam’s skull and gives it a brief squeeze. “And I’m right here to talk you through it so you don’t fuck up too massively.”

“Great,” Sam says dryly, carefully wrapping his fingers around the half-wheel. “That’s super reassuring.”

“Don’t worry,” Cas adds helpfully. “If Sam crashes us into an asteroid, our fiery deaths will probably be much quicker and more painless than if Raphael gets his hands on us.” Sam tries not to bash his head against the dashboard in sheer terror as Cas gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

“Buckle up for safety, folks,” Dean chirps sarcastically. Then he flips the ignition switch on and the Impala surges to motion underneath them.

Sam immediately latches onto the control wheel for dear life, fingers digging into the leather as a steady rush of his brother’s reassurances come streaming from beside him.

“It’s okay, Sammy. You’re doing great,” Dean says distractedly. “Just keep her steady, alright? Lock your wrists.”

They manage to push their way out of Zelia Major’s atmosphere without incident, which Sam is very modestly crediting to the fact that he doesn’t have to do much more than keep his hands as motionless as possible. The roaring of the engines keeps Sam at a perfect clip between frantic and utterly terrified, but they make a decent amount of headway toward the edge of the system before there’s a disturbing blip to worry about on the rear radar screen. Dean swallows hard and refuses to spare the thing a glance, but Sam knows what it means. Raphael’s ship is right behind them. He may not have locked onto them yet, but realistically, it’s only a matter of time.

“It might be more prudent to take Raphael on directly,” Cas says thoughtfully. “The Impala is capable of combat.”

Dean barely looks up from what he’s doing. “She’s a repurposed freighter, Cas. I mean, yeah, we can hold our own in a short firefight with an uppity bounty. But a Government-class vessel?” he snorts bitterly. “No freaking way.”

Sam gets one more precious moment of relative peace before the Enochian ship is suddenly firing at them—the bright green light from the battlecruiser's cannons only slightly deadlier than the blinding blue of angel’s own grace. The shot goes wide, but Sam was already enough of a wreck beforehand, even _without_ all of their lives being abruptly dumped into his inexperienced hands. If they survive this, he’s gonna make sure to learn how to fly this goddamn ship.

“Okay,” Dean says with feigned calm, but his eyes are too wide and nervous beads of sweat are forming at his temples. “We’re gonna pitch down. That’s you tilting the yoke forward,” he explains. “Not all the way—just by a few degrees or so.” He makes sure Sam is paying attention, then rocks his hands in the desired motion. “Don’t pull up. Got it?” His brother ducks his head to catch his eyes. “Sam, do _not_ pull up,” he repeats sharply. “You understand?”

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Dean,” he snaps. “I got it.” Sam quickly glances over at his brother, then out at the stars racing past the clear glass of the side windshields, and then back at Cas twisting his good arm into the straps of one of the jump seats. “When?” he asks quietly.

Dean just holds his left hand up silently, intently focused on his read-outs. He holds totally steady for a long while, then abruptly flicks his wrist. “ _Now_.” Sam shoves the controls down, and the bright pinpricks of starlight all around them instantly whirl and warp into pale lines of nausea-inducing chaos. “Keep going,” Dean grits out, curling a hand around Sam’s wrist and helping him keep steady. “Don’t let up. I wanna see how far behind him we can get. We might be able to break out of his line of sight.”

Sam forces himself to keep his eyes open—clenching his jaw against the entire contents of his stomach, which politely let him know that they’d like to come rushing back up—before another cannon shot suddenly goes flying past their rear fin. 

Dean immediately yanks back on his hand, bringing them back level with a scathing curse. “He’s too close,” he says furiously. “We’re not gonna be able to—”

Another few laser blasts rocket past them, the sporadic bursts of light way too off-mark for Raphael to actually be targeting them, but tight enough on either side that Sam’s forced to stay within the lines of fire if he doesn’t want them to get winged. Which, unfortunately, gives the angel total control over steering them wherever he pleases. Like a goddamn sheepdog.

“Shit,” Dean whispers under his breath.

“What?” Sam shifts nervously at the dire tone of his brother’s voice. “What is it?”

Dean double-checks the instrument panel, then curses at the dials again. “Fucker’s too smart for his own good,” he says ominously. “He’s corralling us into a gas cloud.”

“…Shit,” Sam repeats, just as quietly.

The Impala’s got a decent cloaking system for its heat signature and the sleek black paint job is almost entirely invisible to the naked eye—especially against the darkness of deep space—but the engines are a completely different story. Their junker is way too old for any silencers to be compatible with the ancient thrusters, which means that their takeoff roar is usually loud enough to be heard from almost half a mile away. Sam thinks that Dean prefers it that way, actually. Some kind of stupid, ‘my ship is more badass than yours’, machismo deal. But while loud engines may be great for impressing the local planetary color, they aren’t so useful when trying to stealth their way past a freaking _angel_. It shouldn’t be an issue in the void like this…but sound travels through matter. And a giant fucking gas cloud is most definitely matter. The slight vibrations would be far too faint for organic ears to pick up, but the right instruments would probably be able to.  _The right instruments_ like a synthetic assassin with a top-of-the-line Enochian battlecruiser at his disposal.

A large spiral of dust and starlight slowly rises into view over the ridge of one of the system’s outer planets—the maroons and sparkling oranges of the cloud twisted like an hourglass at the center, glittering stars providing the backdrop for Zelia’s own little Mobius strip. Sam doesn’t have any idea which nebula it is that’s hanging in front of them, not without the ship’s imaging anyway, but he thinks he’d appreciate the majesty of it more if they weren’t currently two minutes away from being _flambéed_. On any other day, Sam would probably find it beautiful, but right now, having no choice but to steer right into the looming deathtrap, the only thing he feels is dread. 

“Alright,” Dean says quietly, voice pitched low like they’re somehow in danger of Raphael overhearing. “New plan. We’re gonna try and lose him by _slowly_ edging outside his blast radius before he can get us in his sights. Then we’ll flip on the warp drive the second we’re clear enough that he can’t latch onto our wake.” Sam nods at the strategy as Dean goes back to calculating trajectories. “Two clicks left,” he orders, intensely focused on the numbers he’s typing into the cybernetics pop-up hovering over his arm.

“What?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Move the steering wheel two inches to the left.” Sam furrows his brow in concentration and does so—then jumps back at Dean’s sudden, angry screaming. “I said _two_ inches, Sam!” he yells.

“I did two!”

“That was _three_ , asshole.”

Sam scoffs dramatically and steers them back just the tiniest bit to the right. “How am I supposed to tell the difference?” he spits. “It’s one goddamn inch.”

“Because it’s the difference between us getting away by the skin of our teeth and us crash-landing into the middle of a goddamn _planet_.” A blast of concentrated light comes launching past the front view screen, barely missing the port wing by millimeters as it goes sailing off into the darkness. “Bank right!” Dean barks. “ _Bank_ , Sam! Hard fucking bank!”

Sam slams his foot down on the right rudder and yanks the control yoke sharply to the same side, sending them careening away from the immense barrage of laser fire. Then he forcibly drags the ship back on an even keel, arms straining with the tension, as they struggle to recover from the sudden shift in velocity. The turn is way too sharp for the artificial gravity to stabilize in time and Sam can hear a cascade of kitchenware go crashing to the floor at the violent maneuver. He spares a frivolous moment to secretly hope that his favorite mug isn’t broken.

Another spurt of laser fire skims across the bow and Dean flings himself up against the starboard windshield as best he can on one leg, craning his neck to peer through the glass. “Fuck, he’s targeted us,” he warns. “ _Fuck_.”

“I believe that Raphael was able to lock onto the vibrations from our engines,” Castiel says coolly.

“Yes, thank you Cas,” Dean snits. “I had no idea.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam takes a few shallow breaths, fingers clenching nervously along the wheel. “What do you want me to do here, man?” His brother doesn’t say a word. “Dean?” Sam tries again.

“I’m thinking!”

“I may have an idea,” Cas speaks up. He and Dean instantly turn twin stares of desperation on the angel until he continues. “The electrical instruments have already gone dark,” Cas says. “If I got close enough to release an electromagnetic pulse, it could stop Raphael without further hindering the ship’s flight capabilities.”

“Cas,” Sam explains slowly, because clearly their angel has somehow acquired brain damage, “an EMP bomb would short _you_ out as well.”

“I can ramp up my own operating frequency a few hundred hertz as a safeguard. Raphael won’t be expecting an electromagnetic attack. If I catch him off-guard, a strong pulse should be able to knock him out without damaging any of my systems.”

His brother makes a scornful noise. “ _Should?”_

Cas remains silent for a moment as he considers Dean’s response. “You think my plan is reckless.”

“I never said that,” Dean nitpicks as obnoxiously as he possibly can.

“If you don’t like ‘reckless’,” Cas offers diplomatically, “I could use ‘insouciant’ maybe.”

Sam twists back to glance at Cas, turbulence rattling through the ship’s frame as his hand eases off the yoke. “I don’t think the _word choice_ is the issue here, Cas.”

“Sam! Watch the damn shocks.”

“No one likes a backseat driver, _Dean_ ,” he grumbles in response, but brings both hands back to the grip.

“The _issue_ here,” Dean tosses back at Cas, “is that your plan involves blindly short-circuiting anything that runs on electricity, when _you_ run on electricity. So I’m gonna need a something a little better than _‘should’_.”

Cas nods, then squints off into the middle distance as he runs the numbers. “I can calculate a seventeen percent likelihood of Raphael predicting the attack and knocking me into next week.” Sam snorts at the colorful idiom. Their angel must have picked that one up from Dean. “A thirty-two percent likelihood,” Cas continues, “of me successfully shorting out Raphael’s systems with no collateral damage to myself or the ship.” Dean hums in assent, clearly pleased with that option. “And a fifty-one percent likelihood of the EMP destroying both Raphael and myself, with you and Sam able to escape during the altercation. From a cost-benefit standpoint, the survival of both you and your brother outweighs any potential risk on my end.”

Dean stiffens uncomfortably, like the offer of self-sacrifice doesn’t sit well in his stomach. “Cost-benefit don’t mean shit unless all three of us make it through this,” he says eventually, twisting back to glare at Cas. “You stick within that thirty-two percent. You _capisce?”_

“Yes,” Cas replies, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I _capisce_.”

Sam turns to add his own well-wishes, but quickly glues his hands back to the wheel once the ship starts rattling again. “Be careful, man,” he offers over his shoulder instead.

Cas gives him a tense nod, then makes his way to the rear of the ship as Sam focuses his attention back on steering clear of Raphael’s occasional suppressing fire. There’s an electrical hum as Cas switches his magnetic current on, then a solid clunk followed by the hiss-release of the airlock door. Sam can’t make out any other noises for a nerve-wrackingly long time, but then thankfully, another moment of breathless waiting brings the reassuring tread of heavy footsteps up along the top of the Impala’s fuselage.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dean whispers, softly shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s actually about to say. “Okay, ease off the thrusters. We wanna slow down enough that the psycho assassin can hop on board.”

Sam swallows hard and slips both feet from the rudders, biting at the inside of his cheek as they wait there like sitting ducks for Raphael to take the bait. He’s in the middle of wondering if it would be too over-the-top to cross his fingers for luck when a turbulent jolt suddenly rocks through the cabin, metal squealing and crunching as the battlecruiser’s breaching pod slams into the hull. Dean winces and latches a hand tight around Sam’s upper thigh at the noise, and Sam takes a hysterical second to wonder if he’s more worried about Cas or the Impala’s wrecked finish. Another pair of footsteps make themselves known—the gait more precise than Cas’s, like Raphael is conserving energy of movement—as they forge a path up and directly over their heads. There’s a slow creak of metal and the scuff of a heel as the angels’ combined weight shifts overhead...and then nothing. They can’t be talking, so Sam has no clue what the pause is for. Maybe Cas needs a second to charge up? 

But there’s no flash of light.

No enormous surge of electricity tumbling over the windshield. 

Not even a slight disturbance in the Impala’s flight path. 

Sam’s mind races through possible worst-case scenarios as he holds his breath. He has no idea if EMP bombs even make a noticeable noise—not that they’d be able to hear it even if it did—and Dean’s hand claws tighter into his thigh as they wait out the seemingly interminable silence. Then finally, a slow, dragging footfall shuffles back across the ship’s chassis. Sam resolutely ignores the acid trying to burn a hole through his throat as they wait helplessly to see which angel will be the one to come back on board.

The airlock hisses and pops again, and Sam slowly, _apprehensively_ cranes his neck around to take in the sight of either their salvation or their doom.

Cas is standing, victorious and exhausted, in the arch of the bulkhead doors. His eyes are a little too bright and his drenched sleeve is still dripping black ooze onto their aluminum flooring, but he’s there. And he's smiling. “I am almost entirely certain that I’m still alive,” the angel croaks, and then takes a few fumbling steps until he can collapse into the nearest jump seat.

Sam’s heart practically leaps out of his chest in exhilaration as the adrenaline suddenly bleeds from his system, his fingers twitching with the aftershocks of terror as he lets them slip away from the wheel. "Oh, thank god," he groans.

“Don’t ever change, man,” Dean breathes, head slumped back against the rest as he practically melts into the bench seat in relief. “Seriously.”

“I lack the ability,” Cas says flatly. “Any alterations to my personality matrix would have to be programmed in.”

Sam can’t help it. A manic giggle escapes him at the matter-of-fact statement, and then Cas starts to join in as well—reserved, little huffs of air through his nose—until Dean fails at fighting off a grin too, reaching out to clutch a hand at the side of Sam’s face without looking. He strokes out with clumsy sweeps of his palm as he pats at Sam’s jaw, looking pleased as all get-out when Sam melts into the touch. There’s a nick on his brother’s thumb, right along the cuticle line, and he can’t stop staring at it. Can’t place his attention anywhere else. It’s such a stupid, meaningless thing to zero in on and, halfway through a self-recriminating chuckle, Sam is suddenly hit with intense twin waves of unconditional devotion and crushing shame. He doesn’t deserve this. Any of it. Dean is touching him with love in his eyes, celebrating the fact that they're all okay, and Sam was planning on betraying his brother’s trust in the most despicable possible way not twelve hours ago. Cas just risked his _life_ for him. Sam doesn’t even deserve to lick their boots. There’s a vial of poison sitting heavy and terrible in his pocket, and now he truly knows what it feels like to be the absolute scum of the universe. It’s only after Dean pulls back with a start, frowning at the unexpected moisture clinging to his fingertips, that Sam even realizes a few guilty tears have started to collect in the corners of his lashes.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?” Dean asks softly, concern furrowing his brow and deepening the lines at his eyes. “Cas is fine, man. We’re all okay.”

“That’s not—” he chokes, breaking off before the words can get out. “It’s—” Sam shakes his head as he faces the awful inevitability of having to tell Dean the truth. Of admitting his failure. He _has_ to.

And honestly, it’s not out of guilt. It’s not out of a worry for his own well-being, or a desire to do the right thing, or even an adherence to the guidelines from that stupid stepped program that Cas had downloaded and sat with him for—sneaking concerned glances every few seconds to make sure that Sam knew he _wasn’t alone_ , or whatever other endearing bullshit the robot was trying to pull. It’s not even out of a dignified or noble attempt to stay clean. It’s simply the thought of what Dean’s face would look like if he found out on his own. The disillusionment. The hurt. The _distrust_. The thought that, maybe this time, Dean would well and truly be done with him. That he’d leave. That he’d finally have had enough and just _go_.

And Sam loves his brother too damn much to be able to survive without him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly.

“Sam, what are you talking about?” Dean looks about two seconds from panicked now, frowning as he skims his fingers nervously over Sam’s sides.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sam swears, reaching a hand into his vest pocket. Curling tentative fingers around the loathsome bit of glass like he’s half afraid it’ll bite him. “I need you to know that, okay? Despite what it looks like—I _didn’t_. Not yet.” 

Sam flicks his gaze from Dean’s wide, green eyes over to Cas’s dark blue—the android watching, concerned and silent as the grave, from his seat behind them.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam whispers again. He soaks in one last, long glimpse of what Dean looks like when he _doesn’t_ hate him, committing it to memory forever, just in case…and then he presses the vial into his brother’s palm.

 


	6. The Church of Man

Dean hasn’t spoken in a very long while. Every time he thinks he might be able to drum up even a _semblance_ of the appropriately scathing tongue-lashing that his brother deserves, he turns around to face Sam, opens his mouth, and then just stares—silent and furious—as the words fail to come. Every single time. And then he spins back around to stare out the porthole, just to do it all over again thirty seconds later.

Sam, for his part, isn’t doing much to dissuade Dean from his gradual thinning of Baby’s windshields by virtue of his scowl alone. He’s huddled up in a big, guilty heap, his shoulders hunched in and picking at the stray threads on his jeans as he stews in his own guilt. Whenever he feels Dean’s eyes on him, he looks up to meet his boiling glare—waiting patiently for the rebuke he knows is coming—and each time Dean fails to actually spit it out, he just goes back to quietly contemplating his thumbs.

Dean’s on his fifteenth go-round (and he really thinks he might have something this time), when Cas ends up breaking the heavy silence with a sharp sigh. “Dean, we don’t have time for this,” he says impatiently. “You can chastise your brother later, but we need to go.”

“Later?” Dean scoffs, whirling around to fix his misplaced anger on the angel, solely because he had actually managed to string a couple of thoughts together this time. There was gonna be a whole bit about trust and disappointment, and he might’ve even thrown in something about _“not even knowing who Sam is anymore”_. It would have been viciously satisfying. “Sam had a goddamn hypo of _Demon Blood_ in his pocket,” Dean seethes, flinging a hand back to gesture at his brother, “and then he _lied_ to us about it for almost an entire day!”

“And I understand that,” Cas says calmly, clearly attempting to diffuse the tense situation. “But who knows how long we have until Michael receives word of Raphael’s death? The EMP would have knocked him off the network, but I’m afraid we have a limited window if we want to reach Enoch before Michael finds out some other way. The element of surprise is really our only hope if we’re planning on disposing of him in a similar fashion.”

“Cas, no. We need to get Dean to a med center.” It’s the first thing Sam’s said since his desperate, scattered apologies earlier. He sits up a little straighter, clearly more willing to speak up now that the attention isn’t completely on him. “No way we can go up against Michael with Dean’s leg the way it is.”

“We do not have a choice,” Cas says tightly. “This is our only reasonable chance at success.”

And Dean hates to agree with his brother while he’s got such an impressively deep sulk going on, but facts are facts. His leg is busted to hell and he really isn’t planning on shoving the bone back into place without first being pumped full of an _assload_ of hospital-grade painkillers. “Sammy’s right, Cas,” he admits grudgingly. “I mean, look at me. I’m a gimp.”

The android lets out a terse breath—purely to demonstrate how frustrated he is with their reticence, considering Cas doesn’t actually need to breathe. Not for the first time, Dean spares a brief moment to wonder why, out of all the synthetics in the universe, they happened to get the drama queen. “We don’t need to overpower Michael physically,” Cas explains. “That would be an entirely useless endeavor.” Dean rolls his eyes at being talked down to like he’s five, but graciously allows the angel to say his piece. “If I was able to catch Raphael off guard enough to use an EMP,” he continues, “then I can’t imagine that a similar tactic wouldn’t work on Michael as well.”

“Cas,” Sam says haltingly from behind him. “Do you seriously think that would work?”

Cas bobs his head in a sharp nod. “I do.” Then he squares his shoulders and shifts to address the both of them. “It isn’t a certainty, of course, but Michael won’t be able to track my location now that his bug has been removed. He won’t be expecting Sam to have lived through his initial attack, and he _certainly_ won’t be expecting me to have survived Raphael. I believe this truly is our only shot.” Cas pauses for a moment as he thinks. “Unless you’d prefer to spend the rest of your existences in hiding.” His tone is sincere—like he’s not actually making a sarcastic point, but just offering the option as an alternative.

Dean sucks at his teeth as he mulls the proposition over. “So, you’re saying that all we need to do is get in the door?”

“Exactly,” Cas says. “I’ll only need zero point seven seconds to activate the pulse. As long as Michael’s frequency is set below fifteen gigahertz at the time, I should be able to shut him down without burning myself out.”

“Will it be?” Sam asks carefully.

“It should,” the angel says confidently. “If he isn’t expecting an attack, then there’s no reason for his operating system to be ramped up to such borderline levels.” He unbuttons his dress shirt halfway and pulls one lapel aside to uncover a patch of skin over his heart—or, the portion of chest where a _human’s_ heart would be—then flips open a small panel to reveal a few colored filaments crackling against a clear insulator. “A quick electric shock to the trigger will set it off instantaneously.” Cas shuts the panel closed again with a click and a pointed look. “Which is why—I _reiterate_ —we really do need to make our move as quickly as possible.”

“Better keep your shirt undone then, Tony Manero.”

Cas blinks at him, quite clearly not catching the ancient reference. “Of course I will.”

Dean snorts at the literal response, then concedes. “Fine,” he says. No point in doing things halfway when your right foot is already on board the ship. “We’ll head into Enoch and let ourselves get caught. Pretend they got the drop on us. It’ll be the quickest way to get us back up to that office _and_ to make sure that Michael will show up.” He meets Cas’s determined gaze with a firm nod of his own. “Then we take the fucker out.”

Cas smiles at the vote of confidence. “I can pilot us there. Without Raphael to worry about, my processors should be able to handle the required navigation.”

“Alright,” Dean says, then does a double-take before the angel can get too far. “Try not to drip on the controls until I can patch that arm up, okay? And put on the warp drive,” he tosses at the angel’s retreating back. 

Sam shuffles out of the way so Cas can replace him at the helm, and their eyes unintentionally catch as his brother is suddenly standing right in front of him. Sam flushes and redirects his gaze in another silent, awkward apology, but Dean doesn’t move—taking a moment to study the familiar way the amber of his brother’s irises blends into pure greenish-blue at the edges.

A sizeable portion of Dean is begging him to just let the whole thing go. Shove it down and move forward. Hell, it’s practically the Winchester way. But another— _larger_ —part of him can’t move on without letting at least a bit of his planned lecture really hit home. Not if it makes the difference of Sam staying clean. “I thought we were over this, Sammy,” he starts dully, and his brother flinches at his quiet words. “The lying and the relapses.”

“I know,” Sam whispers, not even meeting Dean’s eyes as he weakly stumbles through his own defense. “We are—I _was_. I swear, I wasn’t planning on getting back on the horse or anything.” He shifts in on himself, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. “It was just gonna be the once.  _Honest_. You wouldn’t have even noticed.”

Dean can’t help but jerk backward a centimeter as his thoughts go reeling. Not sure whether he’s more pissed off over the blatant lie or the possibility that Sam actually believes the bullshit he’s peddling. “Do you _actually_ think that I wouldn’t have noticed you going full RoboSam all of a sudden?” he spits, eyes narrowing at his brother’s willful ignorance. “’Cause you really ain’t that good of an actor, sweetheart. Not at the best of times.  _Worse_ when you’re high.” Dean lets his pointed words hit their mark, watches them sink in, waits until he knows for sure that Sam is hearing him. “I don’t _like_ you when you’re on that stuff,” he says coldly. “How’s that for honest?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He doesn’t do anything. Just keeps his eyes glued to the floor and his teeth locked shut. Dean idly wonders what his brother would do if he gave him even an inch right now. Flee, probably. That’s always Sam’s go-to coping mechanism. Hop the nearest shuttle and don’t look back.  _Run, run, run_ until not even the devil himself can catch him. Honestly, Dean’s not even sure what he’s running from half the time he _is_ sprinting out of sight. John, once. The ever-increasing wave of guilt and death that they seem to constantly leave in their wake. Or _Dean_.

Maybe.

Maybe sometimes.

He takes a slow step forward—casually noting the way Cas is very deliberately keeping his eyes fixed forward out the windshield—and brings his arms up to drag Sam down into a hug. His brother cringes for half a second, unsure of what Dean’s attempting to do, before he warily begins to relax into the hold.

“Look,” Dean hedges quietly. “You didn’t actually do anything, right?” Sam nods against the side of his face, but the motion is stilted, like he’s not sure if he can trust the apparent moment of kindness. “Then that’s good,” Dean says, letting his palm relax flat between his brother’s shoulder blades. “It’s good, Sammy. And you handed it over, so I ain’t mad, okay?” He chuckles at his own statement. “Well, I _am_ mad, but not—” He pulls away to catch Sam’s eyes again. Mostly because it’s just still so good to see them normal. “Not like—” Dean wiggles his free hand around in an attempt at conveying his vague point. “Y’know?”

Sam lets a weak smile twitch at the side of his mouth, and nods again at Dean’s pathetic explanation. He remains silent for another few moments, actually meeting his gaze this time, and then slowly starts to inch his way forward. He looks like a damn wounded animal the whole time, skittish and terrified, but Dean makes sure not to move at all until his brother’s forehead is finally tilted down and resting against his own. “…I’m sorry,” Sam whispers one more time.

“I know, kid.” Dean closes his eyes and lets it go. They might die tonight, and Dean has absolutely no interest in letting the bad blood fester if he doesn’t have to. Not if they’ve got a chance to go out clean. So he lets it be what it is—water under the bridge. “I know,” he says again, intentionally ignoring the painful throbbing in his leg, as he keeps holding onto the only thing that matters.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

It only takes them two hours and thirty-seven Earth minutes to make it to Enoch at warp speed. (Although, with the relative time difference, it’s probably closer to three by Enoch’s clocks.) It takes them sixteen minutes to get past the first level of security—with a little help from Cas’s electronic scrambler, of course—and another four for them to ‘accidentally’ trip the secondary intruder alarm one floor up. (They have to make it look good, after all. Dean won’t sully the Winchester reputation by making it seem like they got caught on the first hurdle, even if the whole thing is a sham.) Another thirty seconds for that bald-headed angel from before and his two dead-eyed lackeys to ‘catch’ them in the act, smug as fucking roaches. And two, maybe three, minutes more for their slapdash escort team to physically wrangle them into the same office from their previous visit. Dean puts on a good show of struggling against his attendant’s grip—despite his painful limp—and even manages to send the guy tripping over his own feet once before he’s back up and clenching around Dean’s arm like he’s intent on grinding the bones into powder. Sam silently glares at him for making a scene, but Dean can’t help but feel that the bit of pain was worth it for the look on the android’s stupid face.

Michael’s already waiting for them by the time they get there, hands in the pockets of his expensive slacks as he casually leans against his desk, a slight smirk gracing his (fucking _synthetic_ ) features. Dean has never wanted to murder someone more. The angel escorting Cas lets one of his arms slip free as she steps across the threshold of the office, just by virtue of the height difference—and because Enochian guards are stupid fucking idiots with no sense of self-preservation that Dean is going to take _personal pleasure_ in eradicating from the waking world—and Dean lets himself catch his brother’s eyes across the room in one moment of shared triumph. It’s the last mistake the whole fucking lot of them will ever make. He knows he’s supposed to be acting beaten-down and defeated right now, but try as he might, Dean can’t manage to wipe the eager grin from his face as their angel seizes the brief moment of opportunity.

It only takes Cas zero point seven seconds to reach up and trigger the electromagnetic pulse lodged within his chest cavity. Just like he promised.

A resounding electrical whine instantly pierces through the previous calm, amplifying up to excruciating levels and echoing all around the enclosed space until Dean has to jam his hands over his own eardrums in order to stop them from blowing out. He spares a quick wince at his brother to see Sam struggling with the exact same issue on the other side of the office, while Cas stands impervious and triumphant in the center of it all. He looks like an avenging god, static charge whipping around the tails of his coat and lighting his eyes ablaze from the inside-out as he stands firm in the eye of the proverbial hurricane. The charge hits full power with a sudden, distinct _click,_ and then a huge shockwave of energy blasts out through the entire room. The voltage passes right through Dean’s chest—feeling mostly like a quick static charge from those two-chit novelty machines at children’s arcades—but it _slams_ into the other synthetics, rocking all four of them back on their heels as the pulse finally crashes and dissipates against the thick walls.

Dean gleefully waits for the angels to begin dropping under the weight of their own lifeless husks. He lets the tingle of anticipation light him up inside, overwhelmed with excitement at the chance to see the asshole who tried to murder his brother get shut down right in front of his eyes. …But nothing happens for a disturbingly long while. And by the time Dean gradually starts to realize that something might be wrong, it’s already far too late for a Plan B.

It only takes Michael zero point seven seconds to remove his hand from his pocket—revealing a small, but deadly burst of grace already suspended in the center of his palm. And then he turns and calmly shoots Cas right between the eyes, smack dab through the center of his CPU. Quiet and anti-climactic. The entire moment over almost before it even began.

It only takes two strangled beats of Dean’s heart for Castiel’s empty casing to slowly, awkwardly collapse to the floor—the embers of his scorched circuitry still sparking around the edges of the smoking hole in his forehead as his skull thumps against the luxury office rug. His open eyes glassy and blank. Completely devoid of any consciousness.

It only takes a lifetime for Dean to start breathing again.

“No,” he whispers, clumsily falling to his knees and scrambling over to lift the dead angel’s face in his hands. The whole thing had happened too fast. Dean’s not even sure if his brain is done processing the last few seconds. “No.  _Please, no_.” Cas doesn’t respond—not to the desperate denial or the blindly hopeful shake that Dean gives to the head between his palms. Not even a hint at the irritated frown he gets whenever Dean is manhandling him too much for the persnickety droid’s liking. It isn’t _fair_. His death wasn’t dignified or useful or even dramatic. Just one inelegant moment of unexpected failure…and now he’s gone. 

“Cas, you stupid bastard,” Dean grits out through his teeth. His BFF from before—Zachariah, Dean thinks Michael had called him—reaches down to clamp unyielding steel fingers around his arms and yank him back up to his feet. Dean lets him. There’s nothing he can do to overpower their captors now that their ace in the hole has been so violently ripped from the deck. They’ve failed. They’ve _failed_ , and they were so fucking naïve to think that they could even try. He should have grabbed Sam and hauled him off the second they caught word that Michael was an angel. Protected him as best he could. It wouldn’t have been the most glamorous life ever—hiding out in the ass-end of nowhere like that—but he would have had Sam. He would have had his brother alive and whole and _with_ him. They would have had each other. They would have been happy. And Cas may not have been around, but he would have been okay at least. Far away from them where he’d be safe. Somehow, Dean’s managed to fail them both.

“He wasn’t stupid, Dean,” Sam says from across the room, quiet and sad. Cas’s previous bodyguard has moved over to join her comrade in holding his brother secure, and Dean wonders if Sam gets two angels because both of his legs still work—comes off as more of a threat maybe. “He was trying to help us,” he says defensively.

Dean snarls at the statement. “Yeah, _exactly_ ,” he spits, eyes flashing as he glares at his brother. He’s not mad at Sam, just his own fucking incompetence and the unfairness of the universe in general, but the pent-up rage has to go somewhere. “And look where it fucking got him.”

“Oh, come on now, boys,” Michael says calmly. “You can’t blame yourself for Castiel’s unfortunate end. His fate was decided a long time ago, whether you were aware of it or not.”

Sam lets out a low breath, and Dean can practically _hear_ the hope leaving his body. “You knew we were coming the whole time,” he says dully. It isn’t even a question, and the broken sound of his brother’s voice grates against Dean’s heart, even when he knows he ain’t faring much better in the optimism department himself. Sam lifts his head to weakly glare at the synthetic. “You knew what Cas was planning on doing.”

Michael chuckles lightly at the accusation. “With the EMP? Of course I did.” He stops in his tracks, halfway around his desk, and lifts up a halting finger—like he doesn’t want to get too ahead of himself. “But to be fair, I knew _everything_ the three of you were planning.” The angel spreads his hands with a modest smile. “It was easy enough to make sure we were running at a higher frequency than Castiel would expect,” he idly gestures to the rest of his underlings. “But the real trick was making sure that the rest of Enoch’s workings here in the building would be protected from the shockwave.” Michael wordlessly taps at his own temple, clearly desperate to brag about how clever he is, but still attempting to be classy about it. Dean’s pretty sure that ship sailed years ago. “A simple Faraday cage rigged up around the rest of the processing machinery ended up working quite nicely.”

“Was it another bug?” Dean asks gruffly, doing anything he can to shift the subject from the angel’s self-important grandstanding. “What, the first was just a decoy?” He tugs against his synthetic restraint. “Audio?” he growls. “Video? How long you been spying on us? You put something in my _ship?”_

“Oh, please,” Michael says disappointedly. “That would be cheating.” He cuts a conspiratorial grin to his buddy over Dean’s shoulder, and then a softer look back to the two of them. “Come now, haven’t you boys ever heard of Determinism?” He waits patiently, _smugly_ through their blank stares. “What, not caught up on our quantum physics?”

Dean lets out an ugly noise. “You’d have to ask Sammy on that one,” he snarks, like he isn’t three seconds away from a painful death. If this is it, he ain’t going out like some sniveling wuss, begging for mercy. No fear. No flinching. No quarter. No way in _hell_ is Michael getting the luxury of seeing them break. Dean throws on an obnoxious smile he doesn’t feel and tilts his head back to Sam. “He was always better at the learning programs.”

Michael cordially raises an eyebrow to include his brother in the conversation. “Well, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t say a word. He just silently glares at the angel like refusing to speak is some kind of small victory. But Dean can read his brother like a Penthouse Letter. Sam doesn’t know either.

Michael smiles to himself like he’s come to a similar conclusion. “Newtonian Determinism,” he announces. “A little science lesson before we meet our inevitable fates. Why not?” The android steps back over to his desk until he can lean against the edge. “ _Newton_ ,” he prompts, clearly waiting for one of them to jump in. But neither him nor Sam speak up, and Michael’s expression darkens at the rebuff. “You participate in the class discussion or I put an end to this, right now.” The steely cast to his eyes makes it crystal clear that he isn’t fucking around this time. And also what he means by ‘end’. “Dean?”

“The apple guy,” Dean grits out bitterly. “First human to discover gravity on Earth.”

“Very good,” Michael coos, apparently back to the congenial type of insanity now that they’re playing along with his psycho little game. He cuts his eyes over to Sam. “But more importantly?” he says. “Think physics.”

Sam twitches angrily against the two angels holding either arm, then eventually gives up at any attempt of escape, slumping in their uncompromising hold. “Newton’s laws of motion,” he says curtly.

“Which _are?”_ Michael prods again, unsatisfied with his brother’s tight-lipped answer.

“Inertia, acceleration, reaction,” Sam recites. Then he lets out a frustrated sigh when Michael doesn’t let up, obviously waiting for more. “First law,” he begins reluctantly. “An object at rest stays at rest, an object in motion stays in motion.”

“Unless acted upon by an outside force,” the angel corrects. “Good. Second law?”

“The greater the mass of an object, the greater amount of force needed to fucking _move_ it,” Sam spits.

Michael laughs at the sharp response. “Colorful, but true.” He laces his fingers together and leans forward. “Third law?”

Sam sighs again, clearly already tired of the game. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Perfect,” Michael crows. “Gold star.” He turns his attention back to Dean. “You keeping up with us?” he asks, just condescending enough to be infuriating.

Dean bristles at the insult. “’Course I am,” he sneers. “For every action, there’s a reaction. You fuck with my brother, I show up here to smash your fucking face in. You _kill_ my angel, and I slowly rip you apart—piece by piece.”

Michael tries to fight back a smile at the obviously empty threats, then pushes off from his desk to pace along the room as he lectures. “Isaac Newton’s laws of motion,” he says. “There have been leaps and discoveries in the natural sciences from every known corner of the universe, of course, but Newton’s laws still remain the building blocks of physics as we know it today.” And Dean finds it a little ironic that the guy is currently waxing poetic about an _organic,_ considering. “If we have enough starting information about _anything_ —an orbiting planet or even a spaceship in mid-flight—all we have to do is plug in the numbers and we can fill in the rest of the missing data. If we know how fast an object is moving, the amount of force upon it, we can use Newton’s formulas to determine where it will be in two hours’ time. Or a year’s. A century’s.” The droid tosses him a pointed look. “Given enough initial information…we can calculate the very future itself.”

Dean snorts at the overdramatic statement, underwhelmed by the big reveal. “That ain’t the _future_ , Poindexter. It’s just fucking math.”

Michael grins at the easy bait. “And isn’t that the same thing?” Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam actually starts looking just the slightest bit thoughtful. Stupid freaking nerds. “A state exists in a closed system,” the angel continues, “and then the state changes.” He waves a hand around carelessly. “Due to time or its own inertia or even third party interference—it doesn’t matter. An object is in one place, and then later, it’s somewhere else.” He smiles knowingly. “And if we can calculate where something is _going_ to be when it _isn’t_ there yet…” Michael trails off, letting his unfinished point make itself.

“Okay, fine,” Sam concedes after a stubborn moment. “ _Technically_ speaking and in _very_ literal terms,” he says grudgingly, “you could almost say that physics ‘predicts’ things. Sure.” Then he scoffs, shaking his head. “But that’s not the future. You can’t predict the _behavior_ of living people. You can’t actually predict what someone will do or who they’ll meet. How their life will turn out. That’s spiritualistic nonsense. That’s horoscopes and palm readers—”

“Given. Enough.  _Information_ ,” Michael repeats. Terse, but reverent. Like it’s the motto on his fucking family crest. “What is market research, if not predicting trends in organic behavior? The targeted advertising beamed into your cybernetics every single time you log onto the g-net?  _Sociology?”_  He takes two quick strides across the room to yank Sam forward by his shirt, his mercurial mood quickly shifting back to violent. “Your pathetic, organic brains can’t begin to comprehend even a _fraction_ of what I am capable of. You work in patterns. Every single one of you. Running in tiny, predictable little circles for every second of your insignificant lives. And I can _compute probability_ ,” he snaps the last two words, eyes blazing with fury. Sam winces at the fierce tirade, and Michael takes a moment to visibly calm himself down, pulling away with a slow smirk once he’s back in control. “…Don’t believe me?” he taunts. Then it’s Dean’s turn to flinch as Michael suddenly focuses in on him like a high-energy plasma beam. And isn’t that a terrible choice of metaphor for his brain to spit up right now. Or simile. Dean can never remember the difference. Sam would know. “How did you get out of prison, Dean?” Michael asks lowly, interrupting his inner monologue. 

Dean just smiles spitefully, refusing to chip in until Zachariah tightens his grip on his right arm to just about _bone-shattering_. “Cas,” he finally hisses, furious at being forced to comply. Then he sucks in a short breath as Zachariah clamps down even harder. “I found him,” Dean blurts out, giving in before he breaks another limb today. “I found him and I fixed him and he helped get me out,” he says quickly. Zachariah finally relaxes his crushing grip and Dean sags, panting heavily at the sudden absence of pain.

“And you never found it strange?” Michael asks mockingly. “That an _angel_ was left, harmless and decommissioned, right where you were being held?” Dean slowly raises disbelieving eyes back up to Michael at the terrifying implication. “You thought it was a coincidence?” he says, softly cruel. “That an Enochian synthetic just happened to appear when you needed it most—where only _you_ would find it? Did you seriously never even think to _question?”_  The android has the audacity to laugh at his shocked expression. “Be honest, Dean. Even you must have been slightly suspicious.”

Dean swallows back bile before it can end up all over Michael’s expensive shoes. “Cas wasn’t a traitor. He would never—”

“Castiel was the most loyal, the most _obedient_ angel in Enoch’s ranks.”

“You’re _lying!”_ he snarls.

But Michael continues without missing a beat, like he can’t even hear Dean’s desperate denials. “The perfect tin soldier. When I called him up here to send him out on a personal mission for the company? Oh, you should have seen the way his face lit up.”

“You’re a fucking _liar!”_

“I mean, sure, a full memory-wipe was needed to ensure that Castiel wouldn’t let you in on our little secret—even inadvertently. Not the first one he’s had, mind you.” Michael grins at Dean, like he’s sharing an inside joke. “He has a tendency to pick up strays. You should _see_ the hoops our intelligence division has to constantly jump through with this one.” He snorts to himself and casually kicks at the side of Cas’s empty corpse. “How many system wipes has Castiel here undergone, Ion?” The male angel holding onto Sam shifts under the question, but doesn’t answer, and Michael laughs at the evasion. “Fair enough. I can’t keep track either.”

“So he didn’t know,” Sam says quietly from the other side of the office. “You wiped his memory. While he was with us, he didn’t know.”

Michael’s lips stretch into a lazy smile at the justifications Sam is hastily stringing together. “Of course not. That would’ve endangered the mission. I’m sure Castiel thought he was just helping out his new friends.” Michael strides over to grip his brother’s chin in a parody of affection. “I’m sure he loved you very much,” he coos sarcastically, then releases Sam with a sharp slap to the side of his face. “Not that he’ll remember once we get him back in the chair,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Or maybe not. I really did a number on his CPU, didn’t I? Might be simpler to just scrap him this time.”

“Why?” Dean grits out roughly. “What was even the point? Why would you give a flying fuck about us? We’re _nobody!”_

Michael frowns at Dean’s self-censure. “Why, that’s not true,” he says warmly. “You’re my favorite pawn, Dean.” The angel taps two fingers against Dean’s forehead, but the touch is too hard to be fond—more sadistic than anything else. “I needed you out of prison. I needed you and your brother blundering around free in order for Croatoan to work.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks warily. “We didn’t help you. We would never help you!” He tries to yank away from the angel on his left, almost pulling his arm out of his socket if the ensuing wince is anything to go by. “We tried to stop it!”

“Exactly,” Michael says soothingly. “That’s what I was counting on.  _Newtonian Determinism_ , boys.” He grins to himself. “What does Dean Winchester do when we let him out of prison?” It’s clearly a rhetorical question, and no one says a word. “Why, he immediately races to his brother’s side, of course,” Michael answers smoothly, like it’s the punch line to an old joke. “It’s simple math, fellas. A equals A, and B will always be B. Dean will always find Sam. Sam will always need Dean.” The angel smiles to himself, quietly amused. “Given enough information,” he says again, slowly. Repeating the mantra like he’s reminding himself to pick up coolant tanks at the corner market. “Given enough information, one can calculate _anything_. And I have been keeping an eye on you two for a very long time.” 

“Why?”

Michael doesn’t answer. He just gives Dean another one of his enigmatic smiles and presses a finger to his own lips. “Shh,” he urges. “I’m not done talking.” The android raises an eyebrow, waiting patiently until he’s sure Dean is keeping his mouth clamped shut, and then continues with his self-satisfied monologuing like he’d never been interrupted. “First, we make a deal or two,” Michael says proudly. “Get Croatoan laced into the cartels’ drug shipments and sure, it’ll spread eventually. Give or take a few decades.” He laces his fingers together. “But let’s say we’re impatient. How do we go about cranking up that timeline?” Michael’s grin ratchets up to insufferable and he leans in so close that Dean can make out the hint of stubble along his jaw. “ _You_ ,” he whispers darkly. He looks human. He looks familiar, and Dean violently shakes off the creeping sense of recognition. “Because the Everly Brothers will eventually come sniffing around Enoch if we leave enough clues lying around,” the angel continues. “Because if I inject Sam with an incurable, fatal disease, then Dean will tear the universe apart in order to fix him. Because he just can’t _stand_ to be alone, can he?” Dean sucks in a pained breath at the too-accurate barb but keeps his jaw clenched, refusing to respond to the jab. Michael’s dark eyebrows twitch at the reaction—just the slightest bit, not even enough to put a dent in his forehead—and then he relaxes into a smile again. “Because you two knuckleheads are the only ones psychotically codependent enough to actually succeed at finding my father where everyone else I sent failed.” Zachariah chuckles at that one from behind Dean, and Michael turns on his heel to focus on Sam. “Because when you figured out that Demon Blood worked as a vaccine, the first thing you would do is go running to that _disgusting_ demonae playmate of yours. Because one statement from that smug, poncy _waste of a good suit_ would be all that it would take for word to spread throughout the rest of the entire colonies!” he shouts, getting more worked up the longer he speaks. “Have organics lining up—actually, literally _waiting in line_ —to pump themselves full of Demon Blood, desperate for inoculation, and getting nothing other than veins full of our second batch!  _Croatoan_ _2.0!”_ he spits. “A _pure_ dose. All we have to do is dye it red and none of you nitwits can even tell the difference!” Michael barks out a sharp laugh. “And the best part is, all of this is on the two of you! _You_ made this happen, boys. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, because by the time you crossed Spectra’s border, Anna and her _band of merry cast-offs_ had already received the trigger you tripped from the perimeter alarm they keep around my _father’s house!”_

Michael cuts off abruptly, then takes a deep breath, slowly reaching out to adjust Dean’s jacket as he forces himself to cool down. “…And then she’d send Balthazar,” Michael starts again after a moment, calmer this time. “And Balthazar would let it slip that, _uh-oh_ —” he mocks lightly, grip tightening against Dean’s lapels, “ _Michael_ isn’t exactly who you thought he was. He’s an angel. And you boys can’t fight an angel,” he coos with faux sympathy. Then he lets a sharp grin loose. “Unless of course, Raphael happens to show up at just the right time to prove you wrong about that.”

Sam gapes at the blatant admission. “You sent one of your own soldiers—your own _brother_ ,” he spits accusingly, “to his death just so that we’d, what? Be overconfident?”

“Of course I did,” Michael says dismissively. “Raphael knew what was at stake. He knew what was required for us to succeed at our goals. We’re _angels_ , Sam. Don’t be so surprised that we’ve got the market cornered on martyrdom.” He brushes some imaginary dust off of Dean’s shoulders, and then casually slips his hands back into his pockets, shifting to face both of them. “Raphael was under orders to let you murder him. Oh sure, he’d get in a good shot or two to let you know he meant business.” Michael tilts his head at Dean’s bad leg with a patronizing smile. “But he knew that his mission was to let the EMP take him out. Because all you three needed was one ‘lucky’ break, and then _this_ little upstart would actually believe that he had the ability to take me on.” Michael kicks at Cas’s body again, then tosses his head back with another laugh, turning to his lackeys. “Can you imagine?” The rest of the angels chuckle politely, clearly intent on appeasing their boss, even if they don’t get the joke. Maybe they weren’t programmed with same psychotic sense of humor that Michael was. “But we’d be waiting right here,” Michael continues, “ready for Castiel the moment he walked in the door. To snuff out the only actual challenge to my empire. The last, little loose end that needed to be snipped.” He lets out a long, relaxed sigh and then grins like the corporate shark he is, holding his hands out for the big finish. “And the rest, as they say…is history.”

There’s a long moment of silence before his brother has the balls to speak up again. “You couldn’t,” Sam says. “You _couldn’t_ have predicted that all. It’s not—” He shakes his head in stubborn disbelief, eyes glittering under his scrunched brow. “You were tracking us—or listening to us. It’s a trick. You can’t calculate what people are going to do! That’s impossible!”

“Impossible?” Michael repeats, rocking back on his heels like he’s tickled. “Think of the million random acts of chance that let your parents be born, to meet, to fall in love…to have the two of you,” he simpers, pasted-on smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Think of the million random choices that you make and yet, how each and every one of them brings you closer to your destiny. To this moment— _right_ here, _right_ now.” The nice guy act dissipates in a flash, and Michael surges forward, eyes narrowed to thin slits as he hisses through his teeth. “Do you know why that is?” he taunts, not even waiting for an answer. “Because it's _not_ random. It's _not_ chance. It's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly.  _My_ plan.” The angel chuckles lowly, and Dean lets his eyes drop. Watches the last, dying spark make its way out of Cas’s smoking CPU to smolder against the carpeting. It makes him sick to look at. He forces himself to do it anyway. “Free will is an illusion,” Michael says with grim finality.

“And now you’re going to kill us?” Dean asks flatly. He doesn’t even have enough energy to raise his head.

“Yes, Dean,” the angel chuckles again, sincerely this time. “And now I’m going to kill you.” Michael pauses at their deadpan expressions, his expensive loafers coming to a stop right before Dean’s eye line. “Oh, buck up,” he insists cheerfully. Like he’s _disappointed_ by their reactions. As if he doesn’t have a proverbial muzzle to both of their heads at this very minute. “Here, I’ll let you in on a little secret. You, Sam,” he tosses to his brother. “You especially are gonna love this.” He rests a casual elbow on Sam’s shoulder and clears his throat, leaning in like they’re old friends. “You actually have the only way to save yourself _with you_ , right now.” He raises his eyebrows teasingly at Sam’s look of confusion, then shifts back up to face him, keeping his hand in the crook of his brother’s shoulder so he can dig a thumb into his collarbone as he continues.  “Tell me,” Michael begins, tightening his grip until Dean can practically hear Sam’s bones creak from halfway across the room. “When you stopped by your demonae friend’s place earlier, was he pleased to see you? Grateful that you two came to him first with the information on the vaccine?” He grins slowly. “I bet he was. I bet he was so very touched. He has a surprising soft spot for the two of you. Can’t imagine why.” Michael shares an inside look with the angel he’d spoken to before. Ion. “In fact, I bet he even gave you a little something to _demonstrate_ his appreciation. Didn’t he?”

Sam frowns and flicks his gaze over to Dean, then back at the synthetic. “What? One vial of Demon Blood? How could—?” He winces again as Michael tightens his grip. “It’s not like they’re rare,” he gets out quickly. “They’re everywhere. _Fuck_. Seriously, what good would that do us?”

Michael finally relaxes his hand, and Sam slumps at the release. Or as much as he can with two angels still holding him upright. “Well, we’ve got this funny little quirk with Croatoan, you see,” Michael says offhandedly as he strolls over to his desk. “Can’t quite seem to breed it out in the lab.” He gives them a careless shrug as he scrounges around in his desk drawer. “For whatever reason, your run-of-the-mill Demon Blood happens to work as a vaccine against the virus’s effects. Don’t ask me why,” he says preemptively, tossing Dean an affable glance. “But one dose of Blood is all you need to stave off Croatoan. Doesn’t matter how long ago you first shot up. The antibodies remain in the organic’s bloodstream for life.” Michael pushes the drawer shut with a sharp snap, walks back over with a hypo of clear fluid dangling from his fingers, and Dean has to fight back the rising tide of déjà vu suddenly threatening to drown him. _It’s just like before. Just like when he tried to hurt Sam before._ Dean’s heart starts pounding frantic and shallow against his ribcage, and each breath he manages to pull in is tainted sour with fear. “Now with our second batch, however,” the angel says, “we’ve managed to fix that problem. To a point, at least.” He manages to look a little sheepish at that one, and Dean wants to rip his tongue out of his mouth. He wants to shove his fist down into the droid’s throat, yank out any important parts he can reach, and watch him slowly choke to death on his own battery acid. But Michael just keeps on divulging, clearly having far too much fun taunting them with every single one of their failures. Even the ones they haven’t gotten around to yet. “As long as no Demon Blood is _currently_ in the victim’s bloodstream,” he continues, “then the symptoms are fatal. But you inject both at the same time? Well, then you’ve got yourself another makeshift antidote.” Michael grins sharply at his brother’s slow realization. “There’s only one thing in the entire universe that can save your life, Sam Winchester—and to think, you’ve had it in your goddamn _pocket_ this whole time.” 

Dean’s eyes instantly go wide, and he catches his brother’s shocked gaze for a split second before he tears it away again—not wanting to give too much away to their captors. Sam doesn’t have the vial. _Dean_ does. Sam had curled it into his palm back on the ship, teary-eyed and apologetic, and Dean had shoved it into his jacket without a second thought. He’d slipped it away somewhere Sam couldn’t get at it for safekeeping until he had a second to incinerate the thing. And somehow, _somehow_ Michael doesn’t know. Which means, impossible as it might seem, they still have a chance. Dean slowly, carefully shifts his fingers down to his pocket as Sam puts on a good show of fearful desperation. Doing his part to intentionally draw the rest of the angels’ attention as he struggles against the grip on both of his arms. But Dean’s left arm is free. Because _he’s_ the one with a fucked-up leg. The angels didn’t classify him as much of a threat because how far could he possibly get? And now they’re all gonna pay for it. Oh fuck, are they gonna pay for it.

“I am sorry, boys,” Michael coos nastily, winding down from his self-congratulatory speech. “But from the beginning, we knew how this was going to end. You can’t fight City Hall.” He gives them one last simpering grin and reaches a hand into Sam’s vest pocket, searching for the vial. “I do only have the one dose at the moment,” the android says conversationally, “but I suppose we can always let Dean commit suicide over your corpse right afterwards. What do you say, Dean? Feel like going out the old-fashioned—”

Michael’s eyes suddenly blaze furious, his fingers clenching around nothing, at the exact same time that Dean wrenches his own vial from his jacket. And the angel only has a fraction of a second to gape in impotent rage before Dean is slipping out of his right sleeve and shoving the hypo directly against the center of his forearm with a violent hiss.

“ _No!”_ Michael roars at his henchmen. “He has the vial, you morons!  _Zachariah_ , he has the—”

It’s too late. They’re all already too late to stop anything—and as the Demon Blood wildly surges its way through his veins, Dean can suddenly think more clearly than he ever has before. Their guns had been stripped from them long before they even made it across the threshold of Michael’s office, but Dean doesn’t need a weapon. Everything he could possibly need is right here. Right in this room.

Zachariah yanks him back by the grip he still has on his collar and spreads his own hand, plasma blast centering in his palm as he prepares to smite Dean to cinders on Michael’s order. Dean just waits. There’s no fear. No sense of adrenaline-fueled desperation. Just the absolute calm of knowing exactly what he needs to do. He remains completely motionless until Zachariah telegraphs his attack—then he suddenly wrenches the angel’s arm out of the way, slipping out of his jacket completely and twisting around in his hold until he’s got the synthetic’s charging blast pointed up under his own chin. The shot is already being fired, no way to shut it down now, and the enhanced strength from the DB lets Dean easily keep the angel in his hold as Zachariah helplessly blasts a smoking hole right through his own face. Straight from the underside of his chin all the way out to the top of his head—right through the CPU. The synthetic drops like the two tons of lifeless metal he is now, but Dean doesn’t waste a second, immediately lunging forward to catch Michael around the waist, tackling him to the plush carpeting.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Michael orders ferociously, one hand up as he struggles to keep Dean back with the other. One of Sam’s bodyguards must have made a move to assist. “Stay on Sam,” he hisses, and Dean lets the probabilities race through his mind as he tries to understand why Michael is turning down help. And then it clicks. 

Dean strains to keep the synthetic pinned down—his new PCP strength apparently not _quite_ enough to overpower an angel when he’s expecting it—and wrenches his neck free just enough to catch his brother’s gaze. “Albuquerque,” he manages to grit out, one second before Michael’s got him back in a headlock. It’s one of their code words—meaning go back to Plan A—and Dean can see the exact second Sam gets it. The EMP could only be ramped up so high while Cas was functional without shorting him out as well. But their robot is dead as a doornail now, and they can crank that shit up past eleven. Blast through all the remaining angels in one go. Dean just needs to take Michael out first, and then they can focus on Mulder and Scully. 

He locks his thighs around the angel’s and rolls them over, but still can’t get a good enough grip to yank open Michael’s chest panel. Disabling the synthetic’s motion center is the smartest way to go, but every time he manages to scrabble his fingers over the right area, Michael wrenches them away again. The fucker is _stronger_ than Dean is, and it’s becoming readily apparent that brute force alone ain’t gonna cut it. Plus, Michael’s not gonna fall for the amateur-hour trick he pulled on Zachariah earlier. He’s wisely keeping all of his laser blasts to himself, simply using his superior strength to gradually wrestle Dean into submission. And it’s working. That’s the kicker. It’s fucking _working_.

Michael grins like a maniac as he realizes it too. His carefully coiffed hair from before is in complete disarray and the collar of his fancy suit jacket has been ripped at the seams from their struggling, but he’s winning. His left hand is curling relentlessly around Dean’s throat as he keeps the vial of Croatoan back, safe and out of the fray. So he can still use it on Sam after he fucking strangles him to death. Dean grits his teeth and plays through the pain, ignoring the stars sparking in his vision. He scrabbles at the hand locked around his windpipe, but it’s no use. He’s gonna lose. He can weigh every possible outcome, clear as day, and he’s gonna lose.  _Unless_ …

His brother frantically calls out his name from behind him, but Dean ignores it. It’s an unnecessary distraction he doesn’t need. The only way to make sure that Sam’s completely in the clear is to remove the vial of Croatoan from the playing field. Shatter-resistant glass like that won’t break under anything Dean can do to it, so smashing it is out. And Michael’s skin is synthetic, so he can’t jab it into the fucker’s neck either—hypos won’t go off on anything other than organic matter. Which just leaves him and Sam as the only viable options. A full-stop injection would spell certain death for his brother without any current DB in his system—but Dean? 

Dean’s chock full of Ovaltine.

He immediately switches tactics, catching Michael off guard as he suddenly flips from trying to pull away into surging forward into the angel’s grip. The synthetic flinches in confusion, just for a second, but it’s all Dean needs. He wraps his fingers around Michael’s other wrist and yanks it forward, solidly jamming the hypo into the meat of his arm, right on top of the first injection site. There. He might have to deal with a hacking cough and bleeding eyes for a couple days, but at least Sam’s safe. There’s another punching sting as the needle goes to work, and then the roar of Michael’s insane, frenzied protests as the virus _blazes_ under the skin of Dean’s arm, scorching through him like his veins are on fire. 

“I don’t understand!” the angel snarls, using Dean’s moment of weakness to launch himself forward and wrap his hands around his throat again. “Sam was supposed to have the vial. I _calculated_ it! It was a mathematical _certainty!_  How did you—?” Michael ducks out of the way as Dean weakly kicks at him, then surges back in. “Doesn’t matter,” he hisses. “I’m going to kill you both. I don’t need Croatoan. I’ll kill you both with my bare hands.” Michael looms over him with a manic grin, and then suddenly freezes as he catches sight of Dean’s arm. “What is that?” he gapes. “How did you—? What _is_ that!?” 

The curiosity spikes just enough to get Dean to spare a glance, and then he’s gaping too. An angry, inflamed swirl of blood-red skin is bubbling up right where he’d injected himself, crimson spider veins branching out up toward his wrist and down into the crease of his elbow as the violent mark in the center of his forearm pulses with every beat of his heart. And it’s radiating heat. Practically _glowing_ as Dean suddenly feels power flush through every muscle of his body. Michael is babbling again, but Dean doesn’t care. He shoves out at the angel with his good leg, sending Michael flying back into his desk. The second batch of Croatoan apparently has completely different side-effects from the trial version—namely a  _shit-ton_ of extra strength—and Dean’s not gonna waste it. 

He uses the brief moment of freedom to tackle one of his brother’s remaining angel guards, managing to wrench her chest panel open and snapping the wires as quickly as he can, giving Sam use of his arm back. Sam doesn’t take more than a second, immediately ripping into his wrist with his own teeth, severing the circuitry of his cybernetics locator until tiny sparks of electricity are buzzing from the torn wound. He grits his bloody teeth against the pain and jams his thumb into the last angel’s eye, sending bright currents racing through the synthetic’s core until he drops as well, smoking and twitching. Neither of the angels are dead, but they’re down for the count.

Michael lets out a savage cry at their assault and surges forward again, neck splintered at an odd angle from his earlier crash into the solid oak of his desk. Dean has just enough time to toss the female synthetic aside, the dark, wispy waves of her hair spilling out across the carpet as her brown eyes flick helplessly around the room, before intercepting Michael’s attack on his brother. Sam scrabbles his way over to Cas’s body as Dean struggles to hold the android back, hauling himself up over their robot and slamming his still-sparking arm directly over Cas’s pulse trigger—completing the circuit.

“No!” Michael screams as the howling whine starts up again,  _brain-melting_ this time. “It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter, _I’m not the only one—_ ”

The shockwave _slams_ through the room, cutting Michael off mid-sentence and blasting through the other two angels so violently that their casings get tossed a few feet back, rolling to a stop once they hit the office walls.

Then, there’s silence.

Absolute silence.

Nothing but the hitched breaths of his brother as he tries to ride out the pain of the sporadic currents still pulsing up his arm. Dean takes a moment to assess the situation. If Sam is in pain, then he’ll probably be shitty back-up if they run into any other angels. He’s more useful whole. Dean should fix it. He takes a few, calm steps over to his brother—he’s still limping, he should make sure to patch his leg up before they leave as well—and pulls Sam’s wrist into his lap. It’s only the work of a few moments to sever the circuitry cleanly, and Sam sags into him, practically boneless, once he plucks the entire thing out. His cybernetics will still work, but they’ll have to get the locator replaced if he wants to be able to hover the pop-up down over his arm again.

“You did it,” his brother breathes against his collarbone. He can feel Sam’s smile stretching against his skin. “Dean, you did it.” Then he’s wrapping his arms tightly around Dean’s shoulders, probably leaving a smear of blood against the back of his shirt, and surging up to attack his mouth.

A warm, willing body literally throwing itself at him is more than enough to get Dean’s engine going, and he can feel his libido quickly perk up in interest, but this isn’t the place for it. They’re likely to be interrupted if they don’t get out of here fast enough and Dean still needs to fix his leg. He allows himself one more moment to enjoy the hot, wet tease of Sam’s lips playing over his own, the clean-shaven line of his brother’s jaw against his stubble, and then he breaks away, standing up and unceremoniously dumping Sam onto the floor.

“Dean, what the _hell?”_  Dean pauses to blink down at the outburst. Sam looks…hurt. And pissed. It takes a moment for Dean to categorize the reasoning. Oh right. Love and stuff. 

“Oh, sorry,” Dean says. “Did you wanna fool around?”

“What?” Sam makes a face. “No, I don’t wanna fool around. I’m happy you’re alive.” Dean hums in response, and then turns away to search for a proper foothold. “Hey,” Sam starts hesitantly, “are you okay?”

“My leg is still broken, but I’m working on changing that.” Dean finally finds a suitable portion of Michael’s desk and hooks his foot under the cross beams. “Neither of us are dead,” he continues, “so that’s a plus.” A solid yank aligns the bone with a loud _crack_ and Dean ignores Sam’s surprised intake of breath from behind him. “And Michael is quietly rusting in peace. So, all-in-all, I’d call the day a win.” He spins back around to face his brother. “That answer your question?”

Sam just looks sad. “No, Dean,” he says. “I meant, are you _okay?”_

Dean makes a face at the unnecessary repetition. “I just told you, I’m fine.”

“Feeling calm?” his brother asks quietly. “Rational? _Clear?_ Like nothing can touch you?”

“Yeah.”

“And strong, right?” he adds a little ruefully. “Like you could take on the entire Solar Battalion.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows. “To be fair, that one isn’t new.”

“…It’s the Demon Blood,” Sam explains. “That’s what it does. How it works.” He gets up to his feet and into Dean’s space, trailing his knuckles down along his arm. “Welcome to the club,” he says bitterly.

“Well, just so you know, I’m only in this club because I was saving your sorry ass.” Dean can’t dredge up the anger he probably should be feeling in reaction, and his statement just comes out flat. “I’m sure I’ll rip you a new one when I care again,” he tacks on for good measure.

His brother smiles a little at the threat. “Looking forward to it,” he promises. Then he carefully dances his fingertips over the new addition to Dean’s skin. “This is from saving my sorry ass too.”

It itches when Sam touches it, so he yanks away from his brother’s poking. The smaller veins have all but faded now, leaving a medium-sized, bright red mark slashed across the inside of his forearm. “Apparently Croatoan _2.0_ gives you a rash instead of the creepy bleeding eyes,” he says, then lets out a snort. “Can’t say I didn’t get the better end of the vlortch on that one.”

“Does it hurt?” Sam’s got the sad eyes going full-tilt again. Usually, they make Dean cave quicker than a landslide. But right now, all he’s feeling is a slight ache from his still-busted leg. His brother scooches forward and scrunches up his forehead in worry. “Do you feel sick at all?”

Dean rolls his own eyes at the relentless prodding. “Like I said, I’m fine.” He crouches down as best he can over Cas’s body and flips the angel over until he can get at his wrist panels. It isn’t until his brother lets out a scandalized sound from behind him that Dean spares him a glance. “What?”

Sam looks absolutely horrified. “Dean, stop. What are you _doing?”_

“What does it look like?” he asks rhetorically, going back to his searching. “I need a stem injection for my leg.” He tosses a look back to his brother. “Plus, your wrist could use one too. And it ain’t like _he’s_ gonna need it.”

“Dean, that’s _Cas_ ,” Sam says, aghast.

“Exactly,” Dean says distractedly. “He’s used it on me before. I know where it is.”

“Stop,” Sam pleads again. “Just—just use one of the other angels. Okay?” Then he gets a little quieter, more tentative. “We’ll need his body intact if you’re gonna fix him later.”

Dean actually chuckles at the statement. Oh good, he still has a sense of humor. “Do you actually think he’ll be useful enough to spend the effort on?” Dean spares Sam a glance over his shoulder, but gives in, ripping the injection kit out of Zachariah’s arm instead. “We could just leave him here. No harm, no foul.”

Sam gapes at him like a gutted fish. “No, Dean. We’re not _leaving_ Cas here. He’s our friend.”

Dean shrugs. Either-or. Doesn’t really bother him one way or the other. “Alright, then I’ll need to carry him out.” He jabs the stem needle through his jeans and into his calf, then sighs in relief as the torn muscles start to knit themselves back together. Dean shifts his weight a little to test out the strength of his leg, then once he’s satisfied, twitches his fingers at his brother. “C’mere, gimme your wrist.” Sam complies silently, blinking down at him as Dean efficiently manhandles his arm into position. His brother lets out a slight hiss of pain as Dean jabs the needle into his wound, probably unused to the brusque bedside manner, but gets over it quickly enough.

“What now?” he asks quietly, rubbing at the patch of raw skin. It’ll take a few minutes before it’s fully healed. He’s giving Dean that simpering, dewy-eyed look again though, probably can’t help it, and Dean takes a second to wonder how often Sam actually pins him with it. If he just doesn’t catch it usually.

But Dean doesn’t answer the question, changing the subject instead. “How long do the effects of Demon Blood usually last?”

“…About a day or so. Give or take.” Sam frowns at him. “Why?”

He gives his brother a smile he doesn’t feel. “Because I’ve gotta go see a demonae about a Horse.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Crowley doesn’t notice him at first. Not that Dean expected him to or anything, but it’s still mildly surprising that one of the most notable cartel kings in recent history can be duped by a well-placed shadow cast along the far wall of his private quarters.

The demonae snaps at an underling hanging around the hallway, shooing him off to do his bidding or some shit, then lets the door woosh shut between them, locking them into complete privacy—whether he knows it or not. Crowley takes a moment to run an exasperated hand down over his face— _sure, being that filthy rich and powerful must be tough_ —then lets out a sigh and makes for the expensive scotch left out on the other side of the room. He’s just finished pouring himself a drink and replacing the bottle on the bar, when his eye finally catches on the small chessboard beside the room’s large, four-poster bed. The black king being the only piece knocked out of formation—on its side in the middle of the table.

“It doesn’t do to lurk in corners,” Crowley says out loud, wisp of a threat weaving through the statement. “A lesser man might take offense.”

“Well, that’s funny,” Dean says conversationally, stepping out into the light. “I didn’t know they made ‘em much lesser than you, Crowley.”

The demonae’s lips quirk up into a smile the instant he recognizes him. Probably doesn’t register him as a threat. Mistake. “You’re not my usual rent boy,” he says warmly, then tips his glass to Dean in a toast. “Which is my loss, really.”

“Sorry to disappoint. You need better security.”

Crowley lets out a chuckle, completely at ease. “Apparently. So what brings you to my boudoir, handsome?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Business or pleasure?”

“Guess,” Dean says dryly. The Demon Blood still pumping through his veins doesn’t actually let him _feel_ the disgust at the offer that he usually would, but Dean thinks he covers pretty well regardless.

The demonae shrugs congenially and goes back to his drink. “Ah, well. My loss again, I suppose.” He sweeps out a hand. “Business away. Did you prepare a slideshow presentation?”

Dean ignores the jibe. “You’ll never believe who I was just chatting with,” he says, slipping one hand into his pocket as he slowly advances across the room.

“A hunter who knew how to bathe regularly?” Crowley hazards a guess, smirking over the rim of his tumbler. “The sailmaker who hacks out the jackets for you and your brother?”

“Michael Shurley.”

There’s a flicker of a reaction at the name, not enough to indict him on the spot, but just enough to let Dean know that he’s hit his mark. “Is that so?” Crowley says, intentionally calm. “My, we _are_ traveling in more important circles these days, aren’t we?” He takes another swallow of his drink, clearly rattled if you know what to look for. Dean knows what to look for. “Enoch starting up a foundation for underprivileged youth?”

He scoffs at the question. “I’m thirty-three.”

“That old for a human?” Crowley gets his landing gear back underneath him, voice steadier now that he’s succeeded in derailing the conversation. “So hard to tell with you lot. You all kind of look the same if I’m being honest.”

“Don’t you wanna know what we were chatting about?” Dean asks lowly.

The demonae holds his gaze for a cold moment. “Not entirely, but I’m sure it was riveting. Whatever it was.”

“Y’know, I thought it was strange,” Dean starts casually, stepping around Crowley to trail his fingers along the edge of the bar. “How Prime managed to be the only planet mostly unaffected by Croatoan. Then, after finding out about the whole Demon Blood thing, I figured it was probably just that. A stroke of luck.” He shrugs. “Enough junkies of the exact right kind happened to prefer Hell’s ambiance or whatever. And Demon Blood’s always been popular down there, hasn’t it? A best-seller. Ever since Lucifer was in charge. Can’t fault me for thinking it was just some kind of coincidence.” Dean freezes in place and snaps his eyes up to catch the demonae’s. His instincts are a little off due to the narcotic in his blood, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s doing a decent attempt at coldly furious right now. “But there’s no such thing as a coincidence, is there?”

Crowley drains his glass and spreads his hands. “I’ve always been more of the ‘make my own luck’ type, myself. But to each his own, I suppose.”

Dean snorts quietly to himself. _Yeah, I’ll bet_. “What I’m getting at, Crowley,” he continues, “is that Prime took way too few hits for it just to be some random accident. It was like _somehow_ Hell’s drugs were the only ones not to be laced in the entire Cluster.” He reaches out for the demonae’s private stock, using a spare tumbler to pour himself a glass. “And sure, the odd case might pop up around Spectra here or there—someone unintentionally bringing it in from another system—but not enough for the numbers to match up.” Dean thunks the bottle back onto the counter with a heavy thud. “Not without someone dipping their fingers into the till, at least.  _Your_ drugs were the only ones that were clean. Croatoan blindsided every other cartel in the universe, but not you,” he says lowly. “Oh, no.  _Never_ Crowley.” Dean takes a long sip from the glass in his hand, keeping his eyes on the demonae over the crystal rim. “And then I thought to myself, how could something like that have possibly happened? And only one thing made sense.” He calmly places his drink back onto the bar, still half-full. “It was you, wasn’t it? This whole time. You released Croatoan into the other cartels.” Crowley lets out a slow breath and subtly shifts his stance, not even making an attempt at innocence anymore. “So what was it?” Dean asks. “Enoch threaten to put the smack-down on your extra-curricular activities? Or did Michael just need to grease your palms a little?”

“Honestly, Dean. I’m a little surprised,” he says tersely. “It took you until _now_ to figure out that I’m on the take?”

Dean keeps his gaze steady and even. “Let’s just say that I had a recent run-in with enforced clarity.”

“Well, here’s a little tip for the future,” Crowley spits. “I’m _always_ on the take. While the rest of you infants are still drooling over your building blocks, I’m playing _four-dimensional chess!”_ he snaps, voice strained thin as he shouts. “Enoch needed a way in, I needed a leg up over the competition. Really, it isn’t neuroscience.” Crowley clunks his empty glass onto the chessboard, scattering the rest of the black team’s pieces. One of the pawns goes skittering off onto the floor. “At any given moment, I am constructing _empires_ ,” he hisses. “While you’re off playing slap and tickle with moose.”

Dean jabs his tongue into the side of his cheek to stop from laughing. If he was in his right mind, he’d be pissed as hell at the comment—no pun intended—but currently, Dean can’t help but be mildly amused at the wording. “You weren’t worried this whole thing was gonna come back to bite you in the ass?” he asks.

Crowley gives him a deadpan stare. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the foresight of a lemming?” 

“Nah, they usually mention my rugged good looks first.”

The demonae lets out a sarcastic huff of air, pulled in despite himself. “And what’s second? Your sparkling personality?”

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. Technique?”

“Charming,” Crowley monotones dryly. “I can only imagine what the three-chit dock whores must see in you.”

“Hey, don’t knock the sex trade, man,” Dean shoots back with a wink. “It’s the backbone of our society.” Then he makes a face. “Plus, little hypocritical, don’t you think? Considering that you literally just sold out _hundreds_ of your own kind just so you could get rich.”

“Rich?” Crowley scoffs. “ _Rich?_  I’d be _minted_ , squirrel. More chits than I could spend in three narunian lifetimes. Which,” he chuckles, “considering my preferred standard of living, I always thought was impossible.” 

Dean flips off the charm and lasers his gaze back on threatening. “And what about the rest of Spectra?”

Crowley has the audacity to snort. “Who gives one bloody eye-blink about Spectra? I could _buy_ Spectra.”

There’s a long moment of silence. An old-fashioned standoff. Neither of them gives an inch.

“Hey, you know what? Fair enough,” Dean eventually says. “Not like I can make you feel bad about something you clearly don’t give a shit about. Plus, you know what you’re doing. You’ve got it all in hand.” He makes to turn away, then pauses at the last minute—playing up the drama. “I mean, Michael _did_ let you in on the rest of his plan, right?” he tosses over his shoulder. “He told you about Phase 2?”

Crowley’s eyes glint dully in the dim lighting, a piercing wash of red studying him intently. “There was no Phase 2.”

“You sure about that?” Dean asks smugly. “’Cause that sure ain’t what Michael said.” He remains completely tight-lipped until Crowley finally makes a grudging motion for him to continue. Dean’s lips twitch at the victory. “The first step was just to fuck with the other cartels, sure,” he says. “But Michael _wanted_ me and Sammy to come running to you with a vaccine. All part of the bigger picture. He was gonna slip another batch of Croatoan into _your_ stock. A more lethal dose. Wipe out every organic in triple time.” Dean holds his stare, doesn’t even blink. “And guess what, bucko? That includes you.”

“…You need to work on your poker game,” Crowley says after a long moment. “Your bluff isn’t believable. Why would a _human_ want to wipe out a wave of organics?”

“Michael ain’t a human, Crowley,” Dean spits. “He’s an angel— _was_ an angel,” he corrects himself, then grins. He’s almost positive that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Impossible,” the demonae says, unnaturally subdued. “Can’t be.”

“Spare me the ‘impossible’ crap, okay? Seriously, just fast-forward past all the disbelief. I lived it.” Crowley actually shuts his trap for once, and Dean sends up a silent prayer of gratitude for the silence. “We tossed out an anonymous tip to every single enforcement station we could hook up on the com-link on the flight over here. By my guess, the rest of the Enochian angels are probably being rounded up and decommissioned as we speak.” He lets his grin turn ugly. “Apparently it’s bad business for a robot to be calling the shots for the entire organic government.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Crowley says flatly.

Dean ignores the interruption. “But we’ve still got ourselves a Demon Blood problem right here on Prime, don’t we?" He makes a face, tilts his head a little. "And it's partly our fault, I'll give you that. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna spread the word that Croatoan came from the drugs. That all the cartels’ supplies were laced, and that _everyone_ should stop using until all the rest of your royal buddies clean out their stock.”

“Are you mental?” Crowley scoffs. “Do you have any idea how much that would _cost?_  Why would I deliberately tank my own business on just your _word_ that this is all part of some secret government conspiracy?” He strides past Dean and heads for the door, clearly intent on ushering him out of his bedroom.

“Because if you _don’t_ ,” Deans starts calmly, “then a very nasty rumor is gonna end up making its way around the rest of the cartels.” The demonae halts in his tracks. “Of how Crowley was the only one who didn’t get hit by Croatoan and _how could that have happened_ I wonder?” 

The mark on Dean’s arm starts itching again and he tugs at his jacket sleeve, irritated that Crowley seems to be doing just fine at his end of the room—despite the heavy wool of his suit. It must be at least eighty degrees in here, but the demonae is still fully dressed, even in the relative safety of his own chambers. In fact, Dean doesn’t think that he’s _ever_ seen Crowley don anything that reveals even the slightest bit of skin past his neck or his wrists. He’s always completely clothed, collar to toes, no matter the temperature. And something about that pricks Dean as familiar.

…Because it reminds him of Sam. 

Crowley’s immaculate collection of three-piece suits is just like the endless parade of long-sleeved shirts that his brother wears in every type of inclement weather, whether it’s one hundred degrees or thirty below. The soft, heather fabric that he pushes up his forearms, but never any further—and _never_ past his inner elbows.

Dean just can’t believe that he didn’t realize it sooner.

He lets a slow grin slide its way onto his face. More for show than for feeling it. “Y’know, we thought it wouldn’t work,” Dean says, feigning nonchalance. “Trying to stop Croatoan. ‘Cause how could we get addicts to stop shooting up?” He shoves his hands back into his pockets, meandering over to the door. “But we were looking at it all wrong, weren’t we? We don’t actually need the junkies to stop. All we need is for the suppliers to get spooked enough that they’ll limit production. And who knows?” he shrugs. “Maybe a drug shortage will end up being a good thing for the rest of us.” Dean pauses at the threshold of the room, lowering his voice for effect. “I mean, _you’d_ be fine, of course,” he tosses back. “After all…a good dealer never uses their own product.”

The demonae says absolutely nothing in his own defense. And Dean doesn’t even need to spare a glimpse back at Crowley as he lets the doors close ominously on his final words.

 


	7. Make Me Know You Really Care

**_THREE MONTHS LATER…_ **

****

“Dean, _harder_ ,” Sam moans. He flattens his hands and slides his sweaty palms up the smooth walls of their bed’s alcove, bracing himself against his brother’s measured thrusts. They make a dragging, squeaking sound as they move and Sam can see the condensation prints he leaves behind on the pure white surface. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he lets out in little, breathy pants, already frustrated beyond all belief. Dean is still being insufferably coy about the whole thing—all gentle fingers tracing up his sides and barely-there brushes of his lips over the sweep of Sam’s shoulders—so Sam grits his teeth and pitches his hips back violently, shoving back onto his brother’s dick with a satisfied groan from both of them. “Would you please fuck me like you mean it?”

Dean’s fingers tense, just the slightest bit, against Sam’s abs before minutely relaxing again. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmurs against the back of his neck, using his nose to nudge Sam’s hair out of the way. His voice is edging on strained due to his obvious attempts at keeping everything reined in. “Trying to be careful.”

“Dean, I’m not gonna break,” he says petulantly. 

Things haven’t been exactly the same since their foolhardy attempt to storm Enoch’s headquarters a few months ago. The vivid rash that the Croatoan virus left on his brother’s arm still hasn’t faded the way they thought it would, and with it, the rest of the side-effects decided to linger as well. Chief among them being the fact that Dean can now bench _triple_ what Sam can without even breaking a sweat. Which absolutely does _not_ make Sam simmer with childish resentment. Shut up. And yes, an inattention to Dean’s newfound strength had left him with a few ugly bruises, the exact size and shape of his brother’s hands, branded along the breadth of his ribs before they’d realized they should probably take it down a couple notches—but ‘Hey, try not to sprain anything’ doesn’t have to mean ‘Fuck me like a non-corporeal energy cloud trying to lose its virginity’.

Sam lets out an irritated sigh and reaches down to capture one of his brother’s wrists, dragging Dean’s arm up across his chest and pressing down firmly until he gets the hint and holds it in place. “I’m serious, man,” he says, guiding Dean’s other hand over his hip to curl around his unfairly neglected erection. Dean makes a desperate sound the instant he gets his hand around Sam’s cock, practically melting against his back as he jams his face into Sam’s shoulder. “C’mon, Dean. You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Dean unconsciously hitches his hips forward, like he can’t help it, before he hesitates again. “You’ll tell me, right?” he says quietly. “If it starts to be too much?”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam snits, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I’ll _tell_ you.”

And then the wind is immediately knocked out of his sails as his brother starts fucking him in earnest, without any warning at all. Sam barely has enough time to get his hands back up against the wall in front of him before Dean is savagely thrusting into him, _slamming_ their hips together and hammering against his prostate on each go. His hands are still gentle, holding Sam snug and steady against his chest, but he’s finally punching into him the way Sam needs to be filled. Hot and strong and deep. And it doesn’t take long at all for the relentless rhythm to start jumping Sam’s currents up to electrical overload.

“Fuck,” Sam barely manages to choke out through the staggering wave of pleasure tightening his throat. “ _Yes_.” He wriggles a little—his body writhing of its own accord, desperate for a moment of relief from the _too-much_ , _too-good_ firestorm lighting up his insides—but his brother doesn’t give him an inch. Dean keeps him effectively trapped within the cage of his arms, locking him in place with his unyielding strength, and leaving Sam completely helpless against the onslaught that he’s expertly wreaking on every single one of his nerve endings. It should probably be concerning, how much that turns him on, but Sam just lets himself go to pieces at his brother’s touch. Like he always does. 

Dean’s hot, damp breath is puffing over his right shoulder as he pants with exertion, steaming up the compartment as he turns to press his head into the crook of Sam’s neck. “This how you want it?” Dean growls into his skin, lips catching wetly on each word and sending another burst of arousal skittering down Sam’s spine. “Huh, little brother? Just like _this?”_  The gravelly tinge to his brother’s voice hooks him deep in the gut, and Sam’s fingers get themselves tangled up in the cheap fabric of their partition as he pushes through the haze of his own lust to nod weakly. “Yeah,” Dean breathes lowly. He hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder, holding him up so that he can frantically grope his free hand over the rest of Sam’s front, tugging at his balls and pinching at his nipples. “It’s alright, baby,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I know I’m the only one who can fuck you like you need.”

A shivery tingle races down Sam’s limbs and back up again before centering in his groin, swelling beneath the hand that Dean is using to pump his cock. Wringing Sam out with the same unforgiving pace that he’s using to pound into him. He can’t—he can’t do anything. Barely even breathe. It’s too much. Sam grits his teeth and drops his head between his shoulders, tensing every helpless muscle until his orgasm suddenly _rockets_ through him, snatching the breath from his lungs and dragging a broken, keening sound out of his throat.

Dean’s arms immediately tense around Sam as he goes slack, stopping him from falling against the far wall and keeping him plastered against Dean’s chest as Sam shoots himself dry. And then it’s another few moments of exhausted ecstasy before he manages to blink back to awareness. Sam should do something. He should really make some effort to facilitate his brother getting off too, instead of just hanging there like a dead grock, but he can barely move. Fucked completely boneless. Dean keeps pistoning up into him through it all though—spearing him deep and leaving Sam riding the edge of exhausted pleasure-pain for what seems like _forever_ —until he’s finally coming as well, his hips stuttering forward with a hitched gasp and a smothered version of Sam’s name.

They just stay there for a while afterward, breathing hard, with their limbs so tangled up it’s hard to tell who’s attached to what. Sam can’t even remember the last time he came so hard. He’s _still_ trembling with little aftershocks, and he’s not sure if the moisture dripping from his temples and onto the pillow below him is tears or sweat.

Dean’s the first one to speak, letting out a deep sigh from where he’s draped over Sam’s back—his scent hot and heavy in the limited space of their improvised canopy. “Hey,” he rasps quietly, voice warm and sated. Sam lets it wash over him, thick and sweet like Yerrusian nectar. He can barely dredge up enough energy to hum in reply, and his brother chuckles lazily at the response. Dean leaves a row of slow, dragging kisses along the sweep of his back as he carefully pulls out, and then gently lowers Sam down to the bed. He moves to settle in as well—before immediately jumping back up again with a stifled yelp. “Oh, c’mon!” he gripes. “Right in the wet spot. That’s not even fair, man. It’s _your_ jizz.”

Sam snorts at the complaining and shifts up onto his elbow. They’ve traded their usual sides of the bed and he’s surprised that Dean isn’t making even _more_ of a fuss, considering. The afterglow of a powerhouse orgasm usually tends to render his brother almost agreeable. It’s practically a miracle—and one that Sam takes advantage of more often than not. He lets a contented smile curl over his face and uses the quiet moment to study Dean through lidded eyes. He’s still grumbling a little bit, perspiration gleaming against his neck and darkening the hair at his temples as he yanks at the sheets enough to form a halfway decent nest, and he’s easily the most beautiful thing that Sam’s ever laid eyes on. He’s still not used to the tentative feeling of safety hanging overhead in the aftermath of their last little adventure—half expecting some other horrifying danger to sweep in and yank the rug out from under the both of them—but at moments like this, Sam is able to shut up the loudest of the neurotic voices in his brain.

His brother finally gets the blankets the way he wants them and flops himself down on the bed beside him, shifting around until he’s comfy. “You good?” he rumbles once he’s settled, trailing his fingertips in little whorls over Sam’s upper back. Dean’s clearly referring to the sex, but Sam’s sick of the question, so he chooses to take his brother’s words at face value.

“Well, I could use a coffee,” he says gravely, face as serious as he can make it.

Dean blinks at him for a second or two, then rolls his eyes good-naturedly at the obvious hint. He grumbles something under his breath about “ungrateful little bitches”, but drags himself up to get it all the same.

Sam closes his eyes with another half-smile and allows himself to revel in the pleasant lethargy saturating his limbs. Even blind, he can easily make out the sound of Dean scooting to the edge of the bed. The light click of plastic rings and subsequent metallic squeak lets him know that his brother is yanking the curtain aside seconds before a wave of fresher air wafts in, playing over the sweat drying on Sam’s back. And then there’s a shocked shuffle-step, like Dean is stumbling over his own feet. Sam cracks an eye open out of sheer curiosity to find his brother glaring at the robot lounging on the couch not two feet away from them—apparently having been there the entire time.

“Oh, come _on_ , Cas,” Dean gripes, reaching back to snatch one of the bed sheets so he can wrap it around his hips. “Fucking _privacy_ , man.”

The angel doesn’t even look up from the tablet he’s hunched over, calm as can be as he sends a flurry of rainbow space bubbles at a cackling bruxa. Mindless freemium games (like the one he’s currently obsessed with) seem to take up the larger portion of his attention these days. “If you spent more time stimulating the frenulum on the underside of his penis, Sam would achieve orgasm twenty-nine percent faster,” Cas says informatively. Then he glances up at Dean and leans in a little more clandestinely. “I’ve been running some simulations.”

Sam is mostly hidden from view by the half-closed curtain, but yanks up the remaining blankets to cover himself anyway, feeling his cheeks burn hot at the android’s clinical statements.

Dean just scrunches up his face in confusion. “The fuck is a—? No.” He catches himself and jabs a finger under Cas’s nose. “You know what? _No_. Bad robot.”

“You also have an incoming call on the com-link,” Cas says casually, finally relaxing back against the cushions as he clears the level.

“Go get Sam coffee,” Dean orders sternly, clinging to his high horse by virtue of being bossy as humanly possible. The drill sergeant act is probably just to remind Cas that, despite his new quirks, Dean’s still in charge when it counts. Actually, Sam’s not even sure if that’s the truth anymore—but Cas seems to play along for the most part, so no harm, no foul. The angel places his things aside, not even a hint of annoyance at the order, and obediently makes his way into the kitchen.

It had taken them (Dean, mostly) a ridiculous amount of effort, sleepless nights, and cursing to get Cas back up and running to his former specifications. But, to be honest, they haven’t _exactly_ succeeded one hundred percent at that. Turns out that angels are pretty fucking complicated and despite their best attempts, this new version of Cas has a few…idiosyncrasies. Harmless ones, mostly. Like his newfound addiction to terrible apps or his continued insistence on hogging Sam’s tablet when he’s got a perfectly functional gaming system literally _built into_ his own mainframe. He also has a fondness for pb &js (not to eat—just to look at, of course), texting random emojis to their cybernetics throughout the day, and honey. But only from _bees_. They’d tried appeasing him once with sawfly honey from Nerrus and got a forty minute lecture in return about sustainable farming. Really, it’s not the worst price to pay in exchange for getting their friend back. And Sam does find himself quietly amused by Cas’s little eccentricities more often than not.

Now is not one of those times.

Sam gathers up the bedcovers around him even more, making sure he’s as clothed as can be by fashioning the blanket into a sort-of toga, then heads over to where Dean is fiddling with the com-link. A quick, almost-stumble forcefully reminds him that his legs are still a little wobbly from the vigorous bout of sex they just had, and Sam tries to keep his face completely blank as he carefully picks his way across the room—unconditionally _refusing_ to give his brother the ego-boost.

Dean notices anyway, if the smothered smirk is anything to go by, but thankfully, he keeps his trap shut about it. Thank Vlyznar for small miracles. He flips on the link, then leans back in his chair with an exaggerated smugness. “Winchester and Winchester. How can we help you today?”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s clowning, but can’t help the small smile of his own at Dean’s clear good mood.

“Well hey there, Dean!” a familiarly enthusiastic voice chirps over the speaker. There’s a slight wobble in the background, like static interference, before the volume clicks back up. “How you guys doing?”

“We’re good, Garth,” Dean says, unable to completely mask the affection in his tone. “How ‘bout yourself?”

Garth Fitzgerald IV—and yes, that’s his full name, don’t ask—is a lycan. He’s also, strangely enough, a hunter. And one of the closest associates they have within their minimal network. Shocking as it may sound, most other bounty hunters prefer to avoid him and Dean like they’re infested with stinging lice. Sam can’t really blame them, considering the way their reputation usually gets out ahead of them, but the lack of human co-workers means that he and Dean tend to spend an inordinate amount of time up close and personal with the eccentric alien. Which generally ends up leading to unasked for (but not uninteresting) crash-courses in Garth’s biology, just due to proximity. Like the fact that lycans have six different sexes, which is confusing as all get-out. His brother tends to handle the moderate uncertainty about it the same exact way he always does. By being an enormous dick. 

Dean leans back over the receiver and cocks an eyebrow—unable to help himself probably. “How’s your bitch?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses. 

“Oh, that’s alright, Sam,” Garth says from across the line. “I’ve heard them all by now. Dean feels uncomfortable categorizing my species due to his limited view of human gender, so he overcompensates by pretending he isn’t sweet on us. I know it’s all coming out of love. Bess is fine, Dean, thank you for asking.”

Dean looks completely abashed by the open-minded response, and Sam lets out a choking noise as he tries to hold back the deserving tide of laughter.

“So, I figured I’d catch you guys up on the latest updates,” Garth continues amiably. “If you’re interested.”

“’Course we are, Garth,” Sam grins. “What’s the news?”

A faint squeaking sound comes flitting over the connection, like Garth is scooting his chair closer in excitement. “Okay, so my sources say that Enoch has basically been scraped clean. A huge conga line of angels have shown up to be repurposed, but there’s no way to account for all of them yet until they cross-check Enoch’s databanks.” There’s a brief pause, and then the obvious slurp of some sort of carbonated drink before Garth continues. “Also, the Galactic Alliance has been almost completely stitched back together as of last week, and they’re already setting up preliminary elections for a more permanent basis.”

“Wow,” Dean says, absent-mindedly tugging at the makeshift skirt around his waist. “How long’s it been since the G.A. was a thing? You think the unwashed masses are gonna get all pissy about having to answer to an interspecies tribunal again?”

“I think they’ll prefer it to the unchecked army of insane robots,” Sam replies dryly.

“Yeah. Sorry, amigo,” Garth chimes in. “Gotta go with Sam on that one.”

“What about Croatoan, Garth?” Sam asks. “How are the numbers checking out?”

“Oh, right.” There’s another fizzy, gulping sound, and then the lycan slides back over to the receiver with an effervescent sigh. “Honestly, I’m not sure what info y’all are looking for exactly, but there’s been way fewer cases since that whole cartel scandal thing went down. Says right here on my feed,” Garth recites to them over the line. “There’s been a ‘marked decrease in Croatoan outbreak symptoms in the last solar season’. Whatever happened, seems like we managed to dodge a bullet on that one.”

Dean fights off a curtailed smile. “Yup. Guess we were just overdue for some luck.”

“Well, alright, hombres,” Garth says, clapping his hands. “That’s it from me, 411-wise.” Another short pause, more weighted this time. “Unless you guys maybe want to get together sometime soon?” he asks hopefully. “I know this _great_ karaoke bar down in Messier 6.”

“Sure thing,” Sam responds before his brother can turn down the offer. “We’ll talk soon.” He flicks off the com-link, then shakes his head in amusement. “How the hell is that guy still alive?”

“How the hell is that guy still a _hunter?”_ Dean tosses back. “I think I’ve run into scarier dryer lint.”

Sam chuckles in agreement, and then suddenly realizes that they’re actually alone for once—or at least until Cas comes back with his breakfast. He saunters over to drape himself across his brother’s shoulders, swooping in to take advantage of their momentary privacy. “Hey,” he says quietly, running his fingers along the top of Dean’s chest.

“Hey yourself.”

Sam grins at the warm tone. “You know what’s pretty cool?” he asks, letting his hands dip lower. Dean just hums in question. “That we’re both alive.” Sam rubs the backs of his knuckles down Dean’s treasure trail—not to incite anything, just enjoying the closeness. “And that everything’s back to normal.”

His brother makes a scoffing noise. “Sort of,” he gripes lightly, lifting up his right arm for inspection. “If you call this _normal_.”

Sam bends down to press a chaste kiss to the inflamed skin instead of answering, then tilts his head to contemplate the mark. “Y’know, it kinda looks like an ‘F’. Don’t you think? Like a backwards one.”

“It kinda looks like ‘fuck you’,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly.

Sam can’t help himself. He really tries. “You already did.”

His brother snorts at the response, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair, when they’re interrupted by the swoosh of the hallway door. And then their android comes strolling back in, carefree as you please, and gripping Sam’s favorite mug in his hands.

“There you are,” Dean says affably. “What happened back there? You run into a vetala?” Then he stiffens once Cas gets close enough for Dean to smell the drink he’s carrying. “Wait, that’s not coffee. What is that?”

Cas stops in front of them with a broad smile. “Hibiscus-raspberry tea,” he announces proudly.

“I asked you to go into the kitchen and get Sam some _coffee_.”

“I am aware,” the angel says. “And do you know what was wrong with that command?”

Dean blinks at the unexpected question. “Well, I guess technically it’s a ‘galley’…”

“You asked for coffee,” Cas interrupts. “Which contains a worrisome amount of caffeine and can cause heartburn, insomnia, and dehydration. Herbal tea is much healthier. Plus, it lowers human blood pressure.”

“Real men do not drink tea,” Dean deadpans, lip curling up in disgust like just being in the same room with the fruity beverage is somehow sapping away his manliness points. Sam privately thinks that occasionally taking it up the ass probably does way more to hurt his brother’s ludicrously arbitrary ‘man score’ than one cup of liquid ever could, but very wisely chooses not to say a word.

Cas, on the other hand, completely ignores Dean’s mockery, holding his hands out with an expectant look on his face. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding an antioxidant boost as well,” he adds eagerly. “You may notice a particularly refreshing aftertaste.” And Sam knows that he’s already lost. Turning the droid down now would be like kicking a baby chupacabra.

He throws on a wobbly smile and hesitantly reaches out for the mug, taking a deliberate sip under their robot’s unblinking gaze. It tastes like…tea. “Yup, I can really tell the difference,” Sam lies through his teeth. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Sam,” Cas says pleasantly. “I’ll make sure and add it to your daily breakfast schedule.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—” he tries to insist.

But the angel just waves him off with an overly considerate flick of his hand. “It’s of no concern at all. I’ve already programmed it in.”

His brother starts outright cackling behind him then, and Sam silently vows to get Cas to add egg whites to Dean’s diet as soon as he possibly can. “Thanks, Cas,” he says in surrender. He’s not gonna break their angel's heart by turning down the offering, so he might as well get used to it now. The tea isn’t _that_ bad, really, and maybe he can sneak some coffee when Cas isn't looking. Or whenever he’s off ship. 

Actually, _speaking of…_  

“Hey, man,” Sam starts, aiming for casual. “You planning on seeing Meg anytime soon?” Dropping the droid off for one of his play dates—and no, Sam _really_ doesn’t want to have to think about what their infrequent meet-ups entail—would net him at least two days of unchaperoned brewer time. Why not push his luck? “It’s been a while since the last time, huh?”

Cas thoughtfully looks off into the distance at his prompting. “I suppose that is true,” he says. “And I have composed a fair amount of poetry in the interim since our last meeting.”

“Oh dear _god_ ,” Dean starts faux-gagging from behind them. “TMI, man. Just keep it in your pants and to yourself.”

The synthetic grins a little goofily. "Meg often says something very similar. She doesn't have an appreciation for the lyrical word."

Sam snorts into his tea. “You know this whole thing is your fault by the way,” he snarks over the ceramic rim.

His brother rolls his eyes so dramatically that Sam half expects them to fall out. “I made a deal for _one_ time, Sam.  _One time_.” He sniffs and crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Not my fault the drudge had to go and latch onto her creepy.”

“I am not a drudge,” Cas says lightly. Not like his feelings are hurt—just a semantics correction.

“I’m just saying,” Dean continues, ignoring the robot entirely, “you can’t blame this whole _megstiel_ bullshit on me.”

Cas raises a hand to interrupt the conversation. “Of course you aren't at fault, Dean. My associations are my own.” He shifts a little awkwardly. “But that does bring up a point I have been meaning to speak to you about.” 

He and Dean share a wary glance. “And what’s that, Cas?” Sam asks carefully.

The angel clears his throat, building up his courage. “Well, since I am a valuable member of our hunting operations, it stands to reason that I should also receive a portion of the reward money.”

“You’re…kidding, right?” His brother raises a lone eyebrow, violently unimpressed. “Are you kidding?”

Cas meets his gaze head-on. “Unless you’d prefer to track your bounties by yourself,” he says coolly.

Dean just gapes for a moment, mouth open wide enough to attract krill, and then spins around to fix Sam with a look of absolute incredulity. “Can you believe this? I’m being extorted by a toaster.”

Sam wrangles back a grin at his brother’s expense and drapes an arm over Dean’s shoulders. “Aw, c’mon, honey. It’s a natural part of life.” He chokes off a laugh. “Our little angel is growing up.”

The bone-melting glare is _so_ worth it.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Titles taken from David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream”


End file.
